



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


Shelf 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
























s<Vy v - v VvU 





X 

£ 


i 

. 

>€> 

► )> ~ 

> 

► • 


w ■)} 











































1 






* 






Chicago: LAIRD & LEE, Publishers 
18 91 


Library of Choice Fiction. Issued monthly. By Subscription, $6.00 per annum. No. 14. Feb., 1891. 

Entered at Chicago Post Office as second-class matter. 

—---- 

An Unconscious Crime 


By DR. N. T. OLIVER 


































t 


w * 




■*V 

f 

I 






AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

















“THIS IS YOUR UNCLE, ACiNES.”—Page 9. 














































































THE LIBRARY OF CHOICE FICTION 


AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

A NOVEL 


By DR. N. T. OLIVER 


Author of “Angel and Devil” “The King- of Gold” Etc . 


X 

\ 


Lain 


d & Lee. 


/<&cX t '* ,GiH/ ' 


CHICAGO 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers 


















V‘ 



















* 




.. 








































' X 











V 






















V. 


V 



















»*.'* v".-. 


























CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I 

Back Into the World Again . i 

CHAPTER II 

Two Men Meet ... n 

CHAPTER III 

The Fatal Shot. 21 

CHAPTER IV 

The Good Ship Oceanic. 31 

CHAPTER V 

A Harmless Flirtation. 36 

CHAPTER VI 

After Dinner. 43 

CHAPTER VII 

A Feeling of Alarm. 50 

CHAPTER VIII 

Another Talk. 57 

CHAPTER IX 

The Pestilence. 65 

CHAPTER X 

The Ill-fated Ship. 73 

CHAPTER XI 

Deserted. 81 

CHAPTER XII 

Saved From the Pestilence. 87 















vi <AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

CHAPTER XIII 

The Storm. 97 

CHAPTER XIV 

The Albatross. 105 

CHAPTER XV 

A Marriage at Sea. 113 

CHAPTER XVI 

Land at Last. 121 

CHAPTER XVII 

An Important Event. 132 

CHAPTER XVIII 

Explanatory. 138 

CHAPTER XIX 

The Letter to John Barton. 141 

CHAPTER XX 

A Vacant Stare. 150 

CHAPTER XXI 

The Strike. 158 

CHAPTER XXII 

Labor and Capital. 165 

CHAPTER XXIII 

The Stranger’s Story. 174 

CHAPTER XXIV 

A Father’s Terrible Mistake. 182 

CHAPTER XXV 

John Barton’s Reply. 192 

CHAPTER XXVI 

The News the Letter Brought. 197 

CHAPTER XXVII 

Wife and Mother. 202 

















CONTENTS vii 

CHAPTER XXVIII 

An Editorial From the World. 209 

CHAPTER XXIX 

Told by Isaac Warden.. 201 

CHAPTER XXX 

Reflected in the Waters. 213 

CHAPTER XXXI 

A Heart Bowed Down. 224 

CHAPTER XXXII 

A File of old Newspapers. 233 

CHAPTER XXXIII 

The Discovery of the Flight. 641 

CHAPTER XXXIV 

Alone in a Great City. 250 

CHAPTER XXXV 

The Home for Working Girls.259 

CHAPTER XXXVI 

The Reception. 267 

CHAPTER XXXVII 

A Horrible Discovery. 275 

CHAPTER XXXVIII 

Alas for the Rarity of Christian Charity.... 292 

CHAPTER XXXIX 

Work for Women. 297 

CHAPTER XL 

A Struggle for Existence. 309 

CHAPTER XLI 

A Sister’s Shame. 320 

CHAPTER XLII 

Information Wanted . 330 
















tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


viii 

CHAPTER XLII1 

An Unsuccessful Effort. 343 

CHAPTER XLIV 

Blackstone Explains. 356 

CHAPTER XLV 

A Clipping From Two Newspapers. 362 

CHAPTER XLVI 

A Cablegram. 363 

CHAPTER XLVI I 

Return of The Prodigal. 372 

CHAPTER XLVIII 

A Prison Cell. 382 

CHAPTER XLIX 

A Woman’s Tender Sympathy,. 391 

CHAPTER L 

She is the Child of My Son. 397 

CHAPTER LI 

The Arrival of the Montevideo. 404 

CHAPTER LII 

An Unexpected Arrival. 411 

CHAPTER LIII 

The Freaks of a Madman. 416 

CHAPTER LIV 

The End of All. 430 














r 


AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

PROLOGUE 
CHAPTER I 

BACK INTO THE WORLD AGAIN 

Boom! sounded the iron notes of the clock in 
the stone tower. 

Solemnly clanging, from one up to ten; awaken¬ 
ing the slumbering echoes, and informing all with¬ 
in hearing that the night was hastening on toward 
the midnight hour. The moon, hidden ever and 
anon by scurrying clouds of blackness, gave but lit¬ 
tle light; but what public illuminating power it 
afforded served to bring into bold relief the gloomy 
walls, spiked at the top, and the still gloomier 
buildings of the asylum for the insane, ably man¬ 
aged by Dr. Roberts, and located at -. 

Within those walls of granite, dwelt nearly 
three hundred souls, whose vital power of reason 
had departed. In some forever; others, still feebly 
striving to gain the supremacy over eternal ob¬ 
livion. 

Shrieks of despair, groans of anguish, cries of 
maniacal glee had often gone up from the many 
stone cells whose iron doors shut out these poor 
mad creatures from the world, and whose padded 


f 




<MN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


2 

walls prevented any of them from consigning to 
everlasting darkness the casket from whose depths 
the precious gem had been removed. 

Ten o’clock, and the occupants of a carriage, be¬ 
ing rapidly driven toward the gloomy building, 
looked out of the window on either side, and saw 
the outlines of the asylum. “We are nearing our 
destination,” said one, a man, probably of fifty, to 
his companion, a lady. 

“I supposed as much,” she simply answered; “I 
perceived the building as I glanced out of the 
window.” And she slightly shuddered as she drew 
more tightly about her shoulders the fur-lined cir 
cular which she wore. 

“A gloomy enough looking establishment,” con¬ 
tinued the man. “Enough to drive the wits out of 
one." 

The lady made no answer. 

“I wonder if she is really safe,” mused the gen¬ 
tleman. “The physician in sending me word stated 
that she was recovered sufficiently to remove her. 
I hope he is sure.” 

The carriage stopped. 

“We are here, sir,” said the driver, appearing at 
the door. 

“Well and good,” answered the gentleman. “Sup¬ 
pose you ring the bell if there is one connected 
with the institution. The hour is late. There may 
be some difficulty in gaining admission.” 

The driver bowed, and the next moment the oc¬ 
cupants of the carriage heard the tinkling of a little 


*BACK INTO THE WORLD <AGAIN 3 


bell. He had found it without trouble. They 
waited fully ten minutes. 

“Ring it again/’ said the gentleman impatiently. 

“Ting-a-ling-ding-dong-ding” sounded the annun¬ 
ciator. The sound of footsteps reached their ears. 
The second attempt had been more successful. A 
rasping sound, as of a rusty key being turned in a 
rustier lock, and a small gate opened, allowing a 
ray of light, proceeding from a lantern in the hands 
of a sleepy looking individual, to shine out upon 
the road. 

“What is it,” growled he of the lantern. 

“Is Dr. Roberts within?” inquired the gentleman. 

“Yes, but its after visitin’ hours," answered the 
man, sullenly. 

The gentleman quickly descended from the car¬ 
riage, and walked toward the gate. 

“See here my man,” he said quickly. “My busi¬ 
ness here to-night is important. I would hardly 
come at this hour simply to visit your delightful 
institution. I must see Dr. Roberts to-night; so 
take my card to him, and then open those large 
gates and admit us.” 

The fellow took the card and glanced at it with 
no amiable manner. But he disappeared with it in 
his hand, and the giver stood awaiting his return. 

The driver had remounted his box and was quietly 
smoking a pipe, speaking a word, now and then, to 
his restive horses. 

A repetition of the rasping, creaking sound, only 


4 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


much louder, and the large gates swung back on 
their hinges. 

“Dr. Roberts will see you," growled the porter, 
as he held up his lantern so the driver could see 
his way, the moon being under a cloud. “I thought 
so,” muttered the gentleman, resuming his seat in 
the carriage. “Git up!” called the driver to his 
horses, and the vehicle rolled through the open 
gates and up the wide gravel walk to the door of 
the asylum. 

The grumbling porter closed the gates and then 
threw himselt, full length, upon a bench, which stood 
by the gate, to await the return of the carriage. 

Dr. Roberts stood in the open door way as the 
carriage rolled up to the door. 

“Mr. Barton, I believe,” he said, looking at the 
card, which he held in his hand, to the male occu¬ 
pant of the vehicle, as he ascended the steps. 

“My name, sir. I come in answer to a communi¬ 
cation received from you regarding the child of my 
brother, Agnes Barton, I speak of.” 

The Doctor looked puzzled. 

“We have no such inmate, ” he answered. 

“Oh! I had forgotten. The girl has been mar¬ 
ried. Probably she was entered under her married 
name, Greyson.” 

“Ah, yes; I remember now. But come in. Are you 
alone?” and the doctor looked inquiringly at his 
visitor. 

“No, my wife accompanies me; but I hardly think 
she cares to become acquainted with the interior 


<BACK INTO THE WORLD cAGAIN 5 


of your institution. Womanly feeling, you know.” 

“Ah yes—nervous—this way, sir,” and the doctor 
showed the way to an elegantly furnished reception 
room. 

"Now, sir, to get through with this business as 
soon as possible. I want to ask you several ques¬ 
tions, which you will kindly answer fully; then I 
can thoroughly understand matters and not keep 
you from your bed,” and the visitor, John Barton, 
sat erect in the easy chair, which the doctor had 
placed in position for him upon entering the apart¬ 
ment. The physician bowed. 

"I shall endeavor to satisfy you, sir,” he said. 

"You wrote me that the daughter of Alonzo Bar¬ 
ton, my brother, (who died of a broken heart a few 
months since, )was as well as she could ever be; 
and that a continuance of treatment in her case was 
unnecessary—in fact, uesless. ” 

“I stated facts, sir.” 

"Then I am to infer from that that she has recov¬ 
ered the use of her mind.” 

“Not entirely, sir; and I doubt if she ever will. 
When I took charge of this establishment, some two 
years since, my predecessor, Dr. George, called my 
particular attention to this case. ‘She has some 
great trouble/ he said, ‘and will probably never re¬ 
cover her mind completely, but by proper treat¬ 
ment she may be brought to a comparatively 
sane condition again, in which she can have 
perfect cognizance of her surroundings, be able to 
control her actions to a great extent, but will ever 


6 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


be afflicted with great melancholy.’ And that, sir, 
is her present condition.” 

"But she is safe?" and the visitor looked almost 
ludicrous in his anxiety. 

The doctor smiled. 

"Perfectly," he answered. "She is of a very gen¬ 
tle disposition, and has ever proved tractable, if I 
understand it properly; she has never been violent, 
and was not sent here to be subdued, but rather in 
hopes that under our treatment the gentle mind, 
wrecked by some trouble, might be strengthened 
and she restored to health once more." 

"And you can do nothing more?" 

"Nothing. Only Providence ,can fully restore to 
her the memory of other days, for they are now lost 
to her entirely." 

"It is probably better so," muttered John Barton. 
"It is better'that she should never comprehend the 
utter depravity of one who should have been her 
dearest companion." 

The doctor sat down. He had been standing. 

"Pardon me," he said. "I have never known 
Mrs. Greyson’s story. You must know that Dr. 
George, the former manager, himself became crazed, 
through deep study, as to the best means of curing 
his helpless patients, and died a short time after I 
arrived here. I was to have been his assistant, you 
know. Assuming the management after his decease, 
consequently there is much about the former life of 
the patient that I am in ignorance of. Would it be 


‘BACK INTO THE WORLD *AGaIN 7 


asking too much if I were to request you to inform 
me as to the cause of her insanity?” 

John Barton remained silent; at last he spoke. 

“No; I shall take her from this place to-night, 
and you will probably never meet her again, (as I 
live in a distant city.) I don’t suppose it will 
harm her to grant your request. The story in full 
is very long ; so I will condense it. Agnes Barton 
was the only child of my brother Alonzo. She 
married when but a child, a man old enough to 
have been her father. We never knew why she did 
so. Her father objected; but she was a pet, being 
the only child, and so had her own way about it. 
They lived very happily for a year, at the end of 
which time a child was born to them; a boy. But 
the demon of jealousy took possession of her hus¬ 
band’s soul. He saw her in the company of one 
who had been her lover in the early days of child¬ 
hood, and foolishly imagined that his young wife 
did not care for him. 

It went from bad to worse, until finally, one 
night, my brother was surprised at the abrupt en¬ 
trance of his son-in-law, who declared that he had 
detected his wife in criminal association with the 
suspected party, and had cast her off; and before 
my brother could recover himself he had gone, and 
had taken the child with him. The young wife, 
who fairly worshipped her husband, was found wan¬ 
dering about the house, in an aimless manner. 

“My husband has left me, father,” she said, as he 
accosted her. Her eyes were dry. She seemed 


8 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


strangely calm, but the next day she was a raving 
maniac. Hearing of the great success that Dr. 
George had made with others, my brother decided 
to send her here under his care. The rest you 
know. This is the story as it was given to me. I 
was not in this country at the time, and to tell you 
the truth have never seen my niece.” 

The doctor remained in deep thought for some 
time after John Barton had concluded, a puzzled 
expression resting upon his brow. 

“A singular coincidence,” he muttered. 

"What,” cried John Barton. 

“Oh! ’ cried the doctor, recovering himself, “I 
was not aware that I spoke. Your relation of Mrs. 
Greyson's history created some surprise in my 
mind; for the reason that her case so closely resem¬ 
bles that of a lady who was dismissed this morn- 
a Mrs. Atkinson. I learned the facts concern¬ 
ing her case shortly after my arrival here, and now 
that I hear those concerning your niece, I see that 
they are precisely similar; even to the state of the 
mind at the present time." 

“That is strange," mused the gentleman. “You 
say Mrs. Atkinson was discharged this morning?" 

“Yes, she left in company with a father of the 
Catholic faith, in which she is a devout believer." 

Those things will happen some times. I mean 
these singular coincidences. I suppose that men 
are much the same the world over, and it certainly 
would be strange if my unfortunate niece was of 
all women alone in her particular trouble. The 


'BACK INTO THE WORLD zAGAIN 


9 


fact of there being similar cases in one institution 
creates surprise in our minds. Outside of that there 
is nothing unprecedented." 

The doctor bowed and excusing himself hurried 
from the room to prepare the subject of their con¬ 
versation for her immediate departure. John Bar¬ 
ton paced the floor until the sound of approaching 
footsteps was heard without, and the next moment 
the doctor ushered in one of the loveliest creatures 
he had ever seen. 

A fair young girl not seeming over twenty years 
of age, although she must have been at least eight 
years older, with short, crispy, curling hair, which 
covered her small, well formed head. A sweet 
mouth, curved like Cupid’s bow, but which gave 
the impression of deep melancholy, there being a 
pensive droop in the corners. The nose purely 
Grecian. The eyes a deep, dark blue, and from 
their depths shone such a look of eager entreaty, of 
anxious expectancy, that it touched John Barton’s 
heart to the core. 

"This is your uncle, Agnes," said the doctor. 
"We always address our patients by their first 
name," he continued, as he saw his visitor looking 
at him rather quizzically. 

The afflicted one looked at him. "Yes. My un¬ 
cle," she said, as if repeating a lesson. 

"He comes to take you to his home," the doctor 
continued. 

"To his home?" and the fair one turned her wan¬ 
dering, soulful eyes full upon the old gentleman. 


IO 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“Yes, Agnes,” said Barton. “I have come to 
take you to my home. Your aunt awaits you in a 
carriage outside.” 

The woman hurried to his side and took his 
hand. 

‘‘And will you love me?” she cried in an eager 
voice. 

The old gentleman put his arm about her waist. 

“Yes, my poor child. First for your father’s sake; 
always for your own, for you have suffered much; 
but that is over now.” 

“Over now,” she repeated in a soft voice, nestling 
the curly head upon the other’s breast. “I will go 
with you,” she added quickly. 

A servant in livery entered the room. “The lady’s 
things are ready, sir,” he said respectfully to the 
doctor. 

The physician led the way to the door. “Fare¬ 
well Agnes,” he said as his former patient passed 
through the doorway. 

“Farewell, Doctor,” came the low, sweet answer. 

Down the steps to the waiting carriage. A greet¬ 
ing of motherly kindness from the lady inside the 
coach. 

The trunk containing the wardrobe sent to the 
asylum ten long years before, was strapped on be¬ 
hind, and then, with a faint, rumbling sound, the 
carriage passed out of sight in a turn of the path, 
and the clanging of the gate proclaimed that it had 
passed out into the world. The driver chirruped to 
hi9 horses. The sleepy porter relocked the gate 


'BACK INTO THE WORLD cAGAIN 


ii 


with the rusty key, amidst much growling, and the 
doctor returned to his reception room, and with his 
head resting upon his hand sat there in deep thought 
for many hours. Then, with a sigh and a hasty 
glance at the clock, he hurried to bed. 

And she of whom he thought was driven through 
the silent night far, far out of his life! 


CHAPTER II 

TWO MEN MEET 

“My God, Hubert, is this you?” 

“I fail to recognize you, sir. It is scarcely likely 
that we have met before.'* 

“Nonsense! You know me, Henry Rodney.” A 
sharp cry of anguish, then an exclamation of rage, 
and he who had been called Hubert had seized the 
other by the throat. 

“Damn you! To mention that name and expect 
to live; that name which has caused the misery, 
the unhappiness of my life! You hound. I should 
kill you where you are.” 

A brief struggle and the man assailed had freed 
himself and stood arranging his disordered clothing, 
while gazing at the other ruefully; while he, with 
panting breath and gleaming eyes looked like some 
fiend incarnate. 

They had met upon a mountain path, outside of 
Manitou, Colorado. The younger man, Henry Rod¬ 
ney, was evidently a tourist, his dress being of that 



12 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


style adopted by wanderers in search of recreation, 
curiosity, or health. 

A fine specimen of manhood, truly. Tall, broad 
shouldered, with light waving hair, which he wore 
longer than the fashion of most men. A full beard, 
cut short, imparted a look of age to a face that 
would otherwise have looked young. He could 
not have been over thirty at the outside, but he ap¬ 
peared older. 

His assailant was much older; possibly a man of 
forty-five or eight. A noble looking, massive speci¬ 
men of humanity, one who impressed all who came 
in contact with him with the idea of the king of 
beasts, the lion. Noble in appearance, kind when 
left alone, terrible when aroused to anger. The 
younger man looked at the other dubiously. 

“I cannot understand you ’ he said, brushing his 
pantaloons. “I have but returned to my native coun¬ 
try, after a long sojourn in Europe, and when, while 
exploring the beauties of my own land, I suddenly 
run across one who in days of yore was my dearest 
friend. He seizes me by the throat, and nearly 
strangles me, while he cries aloud that my name 
has been the cause of misery and unhappiness. 
Will you, my friend, be kind enough to explain 
your actions?” 

The other approached him. 

"Your effrontery is only equalled by your villainy,” 
he said. But bah! I shall not soil my hands in at¬ 
tempting to punish you. The day has passed. It 


7 WO (MEN (MEET 


*3 

is all over now. Only keep out of my way.” The 
young man looked puzzled. 

"Look here, Hubert-” 

"Not that name!” interrupted the other. "That, 
with my past, is buried in oblivion. My name is 
Hubert Andrews. All here know me. I have lived 
here twelve years.” 

“Well, you are decidedly mysterious about it. 
What have you done—committed murder, or for¬ 
gery, or what?” 

"You, sir, have been the cause of it all. Can you 
not imagine why I have changed my name, dragged 
in the dust by you, and-one that I loved. Dis¬ 

graced and dishonored by one who should have 
taken the greatest pride in it, and assumed another, 
cleaner and free from calumny! You, of all others, 
should understand this.” 

"By the old Harry, I don’t, though. Every word 
you utter but increases my astonishment. If you 
are now Hubert Andrews, all right; but after your 
assault to-day, which I would not brook from any 
other, and your strange language, I think it but 
right that you should explain yourself.” 

The elder man sprang toward him. 

"For God’s sake, Rodney, don’t tempt me too far 
with your pretended ignorance. I may forget my¬ 
self and do you bodily harm in my passion. Leave 
me; keep out of my way. I cannot easily forget.” 

The young man’s face fell. 

"Well, if you wish it,” he commenced slowly. "I 
will do as you desire. But it is hard to meet an 




14 


zAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


old friend, after so many years, and then receive 
such a greeting. Why, do you know, when I saw 
and recognized you, there came to my heart a great 
feeling of joy. I pictured to myself many days of 
pleasure, spent in your society, and that of your 
wife-" 

The other’s face grew livid. 

“Mention not her name,” he cried hoarsely, inter¬ 
rupting him. “Speak not of her. I have no wife.” 

An expression of great sympathy came to Henry 
Rodney’s features. “Pardon me,” he said. “I un- 
derststand all now. She is dead, and her loss has 
turned your heart to stone. Pardon me,” he re¬ 
peated. “I pity you, Hubert; I do indeed.” 

Huge drops of sweat stood out upon the other’s 
face. 

“My God, man,” he cried in anguish. “Why will 
you persist in torturing me! You of all others 
should know that it is not her death that causes the 
change. No—No! Better that! It is dishonor, 
falsehood, loss of womanly self respect that has 
wrecked my life.” 

The young man’s face grew stern. His kindly 
eyes flushed with rising anger. 

“Do you mean to say that your wife proved un¬ 
true; that she, the sweetest, fairest, truest of all liv¬ 
ing creatures, forgot her honor; sacrificed her vir¬ 
tue?” and the clear, manly voice rang out on the 
balmy air of the afternoon. 

“Yes I do; and I mean to say that you, the man 
I trusted, proved her worst friend, her seducer.” 



TWO [MEN [MEET 


“Then I say to you, Hubert—Andrews, as you 
choose to call yourself, that you lie!” 

The elder man fell back in astonishment. He 
seemed powerless to act. 

“You give me the lie,” he gasped. “You dare to 
tell me I lie!” 

“Yes, I dare; and what is more, I now demand a 
full and complete explanation, or I shall hold you 
to account! Your wife never looked upon me as 
other than a brother; a dear friend; nothing more. 
When I parted from her twelve years ago she was 
happy in the love of a husband whom she adored; 
and now, upon my return, I meet that husband and 
he accuses her of the basest crime known to man, 
and includes me in the accusation. This is no lit¬ 
tle thing. It must be explained.” 

The other sat upon a log, which lay by the side 
of the narrow path. 

“Can it be true,” he whispered, as if to himself. 
“Can it be that I have been mistaken? But no. I saw 
with my own eyes. I could not have been deceived.” 

“Saw what?” demanded the stern voice of his 
companion. 

“Saw you, on the night of the twenty-third day of 
April, twelve years ago, clasp my wife to your 
bosom, while you rained kisses upon her upturned 
face. Heard her sobs and declarations of love for 
you, as she bemoaned her unhappy fate, being 
linked to a man she did not love. Heard your con¬ 
soling words. Saw and heard it all, Henry Rod¬ 
ney! I could not have been mistaken,” 


16 <±/lhI UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

He had risen during the latter part of his speech, 
and was now pacing the rocky path. 

Henry Rodney came to his side, and stood in his 
path. His face had grown sad. 

“I understand it all now,” and his voice had 
grown soft and low. “Sit upon this log, my poor, 
unhappy friend, and listen.” 

The other did his bidding. 

“You were terribly mistaken that night. Right in 
one thing, wrong in the other. In order to explain 
to your mind the truth of my words, I must reveal 
to you the one secret of my family. In the days 
gone by we were very poor. My father, mother, 
sister and I. So poor in fact, that often we were 
obliged to go to bed hungry. My father seemed 
singularly unfortunate. Fortune seemed to have 
turned from him and, to make matters worse, mother 
died. 

After mother’s death, father became a changed 
man; from a kind loving parent who loved his chil¬ 
dren and would have willingly sacrificed all for 
their happiness, he grew stern and harsh, and 
seemed to turn from us. My sister and I were 
obliged to find employment, for he rated us at all 
times as being drawbacks to his rise in the world. 
My sister, God bless her, obtained work as a book¬ 
keeper in a large wholesale hardware establishment, 
where she slaved her young life away, morning and 
night, and to cap the climax, the senior partner of 
the firm became attracted by her fresh young beauty 
and persecuted her with offers of marriage. 



















/ 







































TWO OAEN lMEET 


*7 

"I say persecuted her, for he was an old man, 
with a heart as hard as the wares he dealt in, and 
she could not love him. She came to my father 
one night and told him all, saying she could stay 
there no longer. 

To our surprise, he grew very angry, reproached 
her as an ungrateful child who would see him strug¬ 
gling in poverty rather than assist him to rise, 
when a favorable opportunity presented itself. In 
conclusion he said: Tf Mr. Warden asks you to 
marry him again, I shall expect you to accept, and 
be thankful that such a chance is offered you.’ 

"My sister, appalled at the effect of her confi¬ 
dence, drew back in horror. 

"But I do not love him, father,” she cried. 

"Nonsense,” answered this harsh parent. "That 
is not necessary. Only fools indulge in that luxury. 
We cannot afford it.” 

"But I love another,” she said meekly. 

"My father’s rage knew no bounds. 

"You are not of age,” he fumed. "And I will not 
allow you to marry any other. If you dare to dis* 
obey me, I shall curse you as an ungrateful, unduti- 
ful child.” 

"I tried to conciliate him, showing him how such; 
a marriage, although it might bring wealth, wouldi 
certainly produce unhappiness. 

"My words but increased his anger and it was: 
with a sorrowful heart that my darling sister and I 
went to our beds that night. To make a long story 

An Unconscious Crime 2 


i8 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


short, she married Warden, and the most unhappy 
results followed. He was an ignorant, arbitrary, 
jealous wretch, and went so far at last as to forbid 
her from visiting or even seeing me, her brother. 

“The servants were instructed to watch her, and 
you can imagine the unhappy life she led. But in 
spite of the eyes ever upon her, she managed to 
meet me often, and my blood would fairly boil with 
rage when she would tell me of the harsh, inhuman 
treatment she was obliged to endure. Our meeting 
place was in the park, usually at night. 

“At last fortune seemed to smile upon me. I ob¬ 
tained a lucrative position, in a house who wished 
me to go to England and stated that I must go at 
once. I managed to send word to my sister and 
she met me that night at our usual trysting place. 
That meeting you saw, for it was the night you 
mentioned. My sister was of the same size as your 
wife, and in the darkness could easily have been 
mistaken for her, and now that I have told you all, 
to the truth of which I swear before heaven, may 
God forgive you if you have done aught in your 
jealous anger that has brought sorrow upon one of 
the dearest, best women upon earth.” 

His companion had buried his face in his hands. 
At the concluding words of Rodney’s explanation he 
looked up and the young man drew back in horror 
at the look of stony despair that he saw in his 
eyes. 

“If your words are true, Henry Rodney, I have 
much to answer for. I can never be forgiven. God 


TWO MEN MEET 


*9 


help me, what can I do? I have bruised the heart 
that beat for me only. Have crushed the tender 
flower whose fragrance filled my life. What can I 
do? What can I do?” and a bitter sob of unutter¬ 
able anguish shook the massive frame. Rodney 
took the trembling hand. "It may yet be all right,” 
he said softly. "What have you done with her?” 
"Acted the part of a brute," cried the unhappy man, 
rising to his feet. 

"In the first impulse of devilish jealousy, I hur¬ 
ried to the home that I thought dishonored. To 
my surprise, I saw her sewing in the lamp-light. 
She looked up with a bright smile of welcome. I 
became filled with ungovernable rage. She whom 
I had seen but a short hour since, and who had 
managed to reach home before myself, probably by 
means of a hack, I thought, to look up into my 
face, with a smile upon the lips I had lately seen 
ravished by your kisses, and bid me welcome. In 
a voice thick with passion I told her what I had 
seen, accusing her of the most detestable crimes, 
and while the sweet face grew pale and set and the 
beautiful eyes grew hard and stony in despair, I cast 
her from me. Heeding not her words, and going 
to the crib, where sweetly slumbering in child’ish 
innocence lay our boy, I seized the child and hur¬ 
ried from the house.” 

The young man’s face grew stern again. 

"Indeed the part of a brute," he said coldly. 
"And she?” 

"I have never seen her since. Nor have I heard 


20 c/W UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

one word relative to her. The boy is with me, now 
nearly thirteen years of age, knowing only a fond 
father’s love, happy with me.” 

The young man paced the rocky path with rapid 
strides. 

"You have been a fool, man!” he cried excitedly. 
"You have not only wrecked your own life but that 
of another, your wife. Upon the boy’s character 
you have, in your hastiness, cast a blot, that it 
may take years to efface. Now listen to me: You 
must find that wife who may perhaps be even now 
no more. But you must seek until you find her, 
and then, telling her all, ask her forgiveness. Your 
boy must know his mother. Come. There is no 
time to waste. It must be done at once,” and he 
seized the arm of the older man in a strong grip. 

"She will never forgive,” groaned the other. 

"I could not blame her if she did not,” answered 
Henry Rodney. “But that remains to be seen. 
Come!” 

And linking his arm in that of the other, he hur¬ 
riedly led the way down the mountain path, to the 
town below. 

Night was fast approaching as they commenced 
their descent. They parted at Rodney’s hotel to 
meet in a short time. 

"A letter for you, Mr. Rodney." The landlord 
obsequiously presented it-a letter in a strange 
hand writing. The young man tears it open and 
reads it. Then sitting at the table he answers it 
and sees it posted. 


THE FATAL SHOT 


21 


CHAPTER III 

the fatal shot 

The “Big Deal” was in full blast. 

The Big Deal was the name bestowed upon 
one of the numerous gambling hells with which 
Manitou abounded. And truly it was the largest 
and most prosperous of them all. The “Big Deal” 
was not fastidious as to the class of customers who 
patronized its tables. Gentlemen tourists from the 
big hotels, cowboys, Mexicans, Chinese, Indians, 
all jostled each other as they put their venture upon 
the revolving wheel or staked their money upon 
the turn of a card, or the cast of the die. 

All games of chance were represented. There 
was ample opportunity to win, or lose, (which was 
more likely) in any manner the gambler felt in¬ 
clined. I have often wondered at the fatal in¬ 
fatuation there is to some in the gaming table. I 
have seen men—shrewd, cunning, sharp business 
men, who seemed to cast all discretion to the wind 
when the glaring lights and tinsel of the gaudy 
gambling place attracted them and have persistently 
thrown away fortunes in a vain endeavor to win that 
which seemed like the “will o’ the wisp,” always 
near, seemingly within grasp, but which invariably 
eluded their anxious clutch,—Gold ! 

When will mankind stop to consider this one 
thing, and heed the vulgar, but infinitely true say¬ 
ing: “Never try to beat a man at his own game." 

The proprietors of games of chance run the game 


22 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


for profit to themselves, not for others. The reck¬ 
less gambler says to himself: "There is a chance 
for me. I may be the lucky one. Some one must 
win. I shall certainly be that one at some time." 
And so he expends ten dollars in hopes of winning 
hundreds, and perhaps, occasionally, he may be 
successful. Then with a flushed air of triumph he 
says: "I knew it would come my way,” not stop¬ 
ping to consider that he has probably thrown away 
twice as much as he has won before fortune had 
turned his way. The devotee of keno, that very 
fascinating game, buys his cards, which seldom cost 
him much, and eagerly marks off the numbers as 
they are called out by the dealers, and if among 
the hundreds who are equally as anxious as himself, 
he should chance to find himself the most fortunate, 
he congratulates himself upon his luck, and will¬ 
ingly pays the ten per cent, deducted by the bank. 
The bank only claims a percentage, that is all. It 
looks fair enough to the gamester, but some one 
must lose in order that this same percentage may 
be paid, and if the game is continued a sufficient 
length of time the percentage, small as it may be, 
eats up the entire winning. It is chance for the 
gambler; a surety for the bank. Others may lose, 
the bank always wins. It is even so with all games 
of chance, no matter how conducted. 

The "Big Deal” was a model gambling house, 
conducted on truly strict business principles, (for 
the benefit of the proprietor.) In addition to the 
large hall where keno, faro, chuck-a-luck and rou- 


7HE FATAL SHOT 


2 3 


lette were played, there were a number of smaller 
rooms, where social poker parties were accommo¬ 
dated. This truly American game, met with much 
favor among the patrons of the house, and usually 
the rooms, some twenty all told, were occupied. 

On this particular night which we wish to record, 
the place was more than usually crowded. Every 
table was filled, the hurrying waiters being kept 
busy supplying liquid refreshment by which the 
thirst of the numerous patrons could be quenched. 
In room 12 a party were playing a stiff game of 
poker. They had come in early and were still play¬ 
ing, although it was nearly midnight. The room 
was not occupied by any, save the players, it being 
one of the private ones. The electric annunciator 
tinkled from the frame behind the door. 

"No. 12,” muttered the white aproned dispenser 
of liquid fire. 

"They are going it at a great rate," remarked his 
assistant. 

The waiter, who had hurried to answer the sum¬ 
mons, now came to the bar. 

"Two whiskies, one soda, one absinthe,” he called 
out. "For No. 12," he added. "That fellow has 
drunk enough absinthe to drive him mad," said the 
bar tender, as he prepared to fill the order. But he 
filled it just the same. It made but little difference 
to him whether the drinker went mad or not, as 
long as he paid for what he ordered. It was not his 
place to warn him—merely to supply him. A 
young, handsome boy approached the bar. 


24 


rfN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"Have you seen my father?” he asked. The bar¬ 
tender looked curiously at the questioner. 

"And who is your father?” he asked. 

"Hubert Andrews. You should know him well 
enough. He comes here often.” 

The waiter winked suggestively at the man, and 
shook his head warningly. 

"Haven’t seen him to-night,” gruffly answered he 
of the white apron, as he turned his back upon the 
boy. 

An anxious look crossed the boy’s expressive 
countenance, and he slowly walked away. 

A bearded man, carefully draped in evening dress, 
had heard the boy’s question, stepped up to him, 
and laid his hand upon his shoulder. The boy 
started. 

"Are you Hubert Andrews’ son?” inquired the 
stranger. 

"Yes, sir. Can you tell me where I can find him?” 
and the large eyes looked up into the stranger’s 
face. 

"I too have been searching for him,” answered 
the man. "I left him at nightfall near my hotel. I 
was to have met him within an hour. He failed to 
keep his appointment, and I have been looking for 
him everywhere.” They took seats at a table hid¬ 
den by a flowering orange tree in the corner. 

"He is here in this building, somewhere,” an¬ 
swered the boy, his anxious eyes moving about the 
place. "He comes here every night.” 

A pang shot through the other’s heart. 


THE FATAL SHOT 


25 


A gambler! Probably to forget the fancied wrong 
that had embittered him toward all mankind, he had 
turned, for solace, to the fascinating card. 

Do you know my father?” came the boy’s sweet 
voice, interrupting his thoughts. 

“For years, my boy, we were dear friends. I met 
him again to-day, after twelve years’ separation.” 

“What is your name, sir?” 

“Henry Rodney.” 

A thoughtful expression came to the boy’s eyes. 
“I don’t remember ever hearing father speak of you,” 
he said. 

“Hardly likely,” said Rodney, absently. “What 
is your name?” he continued. “Albert Andrews,” 
answered the boy. “My father must be here some¬ 
where,” he said rising. “I am going to look for 
him.” 

“I will go with you, my boy!” exclaimed Rodney. 
“I wish to see him as well.” They threaded their 
way through the dense throng. The boy silent and 
anxious; Henry Rodney vexed and sad. 

He had left Hubert Andrews at the door of his 
hotel, he promising to return within an hour. He 
had waited long after that time; but the old friend 
had not returned. 

Speaking of him to the landlord of the hotel, he 
observed a smile cross his lips as he directed him 
to the “Big Deal” as the most likely place to find 
him. 

He had come and met the boy, a beautiful lad of 
thirteen, in whose dark eyes shone out the soul q( 


26 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


the wronged mother. He had heard from him that 
the father was in the habit of frequenting this place, 
and he felt, as before described, vexed at the man 
having no more stability of mindj sad that a 
noble life should be ‘thrown away. 

They had drawn ne^r the private poker rooms. 
A waiter brushed past them as they approached the 
door of No. 12, and even as they were about to pass, 
opened it. 

A glad cry. and Henry Rodney found himself 
drawn toward the door by his companion, and the 
next moment was in the room. 

The boy had found his father. He sat opposite 
the door, with a pack of cards in his hands, a pile 
of greenbacks and silver before him, hatless, coat¬ 
less, with wild eyes and disordered hair and beard. 
He did not see his son nor Rodney. He saw only 
the waiter. 

"My absinthe," he cried hoarsely, as the waiter 
drew near. 

' Here it is, sir,’* answered the man, handing the 
greenish liquor to him. "Excuse me, sir, but are 
you not drinking too much?" he continued respect¬ 
fully. 

A wild laugh, and the gambler had drank the 
maddening fluid. 

"Too much!" he cried. "No. Not half enough! 
I am lucky when I drink absinthe. It fires my 
brain. It makes my heart jump with feverish joy. 
It brings the gold and silver to my side. I need it, 
too, for her. She whom I have wronged. I am 


27 


THE FATAL SHOT 


going to her, and I want gold. Do you hear? 
Gold! It is my deal. This pile before me must 
be increased; and with feverish impatience he 
dealt the cards. His companions, two Americans 
who drank whisky, one Mexican who took nothing 
but soda, but who continually smoked cigarettes, 
glanced at each other significantly. They saw that 
the liquor was making their lucky opponent mad. 
The cards were dealt. The boy drew near his 
father’s side, Rodney remaining as if spellbound by 
the door. 


The nearly insane man glanced at his hand, and 
with a wild laugh staked his pile of money on its 
strength. 

Father, came the low, sweet voice of the boy. 
The man turned. 

"Ah, Albert, my son. Don’t interrupt me. For¬ 
tune is within my grasp.” 

“Come away, father,” pleaded the boy. 

Don’t interrupt me, I tell you,” came the answer, 
harshly. 

The boy drew back, frightened. 

‘I see you, Senor,” said the Mexican calmly, 
“and raise you one thousand better.” 

The Americans dropped out. 

”1 see your thousand and raise you five thou¬ 
sand ! ” cried Andrews. 

The Mexican staked the money. 

“Ten thousand,” he cried. 

“Ten more!” and Hubert Andrews produced the 
money from an inside pocket. “I call you,” 


28 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"Four kings and a queen.” 

"Not strong enough, Senor. Four aces and a 
Jack,” and the Mexican drew the money toward 
him. 

A groan of intense agony, and the massive head 
fell upon the table. 

"Come home now, won’t you father?” and the boy 
took the arm of the ruined man. 

"Stand from me,” shouted the father, throwing 
him aside. "You yellow skinned devil, you have 
robbed me,” he shrieked. The next moment he 
had the Mexican by the throat. 

"Curse you! Release me,” gasped the man. 

"Not until I have choked the life out of your black 
soul." 

A pistol shot, a cry of pain, and Hubert Andrews 
staggered back to the floor. 

"You have murdered him," cried Rodney, spring¬ 
ing forward. "The Senor had better mind his own 
business,” said the Mexican calmly, holding the still 
smoking revolver. 

"He is my friend!” cried Rodney, and he had the 
man by the throat. The American sprang forward 
to separate them. 

Too late ! A smothered report, and Henry Rodney 
fell dead. 

With a cry of horror, the American rushed out of 
the room. 

The Mexican coolly pocketed the money, and 
made good his escape, just in time to evade the 


THE FATAL SHOT 


29 


crowd that now surged toward fatal No. 12, at¬ 
tracted by the pistol shots. 

The bartender and the waiter raised Hubert An¬ 
drews’ form and laid it upon a lounge upon one 
side of the room. He was not dead, but was 
wounded mortally. 

The frantic cries of the son rang out above the din. 

The wounded man opened his eyes. “My son!” 
he gasped. 

“Here, father!” 

“Must—speak—alone—leave us—” 

“You had better have a doctor, sir,” said the 
waiter. 

“No—doctor—no use—must die—Go—leave my 
boy—with me.” 

They granted his wish. 

“Hold my head—my boy—,” gasped the dying 
man. 

The weeping son did as he requested. 

“There—that’s better—I can’t die—boy—until— 
y 0U —know — all — ’’then with much effort, he told 
the boy the story of his mother, how he had 
wronged her. Described his meeting with Henry 
Rodney that day. Told him that he had come to 
the gambling house that night for the last time; 
that he had intended to depart for the east in the 
morning. 

“Go—find—mother,” he gasped. “Rodney knows. 
He—help you—” As he said these words his eyes, 
already growing dim, rested upon the prostrate form 


3 ° 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


of the man he had falsely accused. With a mighty 
effort he raised himself upon one arm. 

"He—" pointing to the corpse— "Rodney—dead!" 

The boy, awed, frightened, murmured "Yes." 

The dying man fell back. 

"If he is—innocent—I have killed him. If he— 
guilty, he is punished." 

The boy knelt by the side of the only being on 
earth he loved. 

"Oh, father," he moaned. "You must not leave 
me. What can I do? What will become of me?" 

The kindly eyes opened. 

"Go—find mother—" he whispered. "Name not 
—Andrews—mother’s name-" 

"What, father? Quick, tell me!" 

"Mother’s name-" a struggle, a vain attempt 

to articulate, and the head fell back, the eyes 
closed, a faint rattle in the throat, and the boy was 
an orphan. 

With a heart-rending cry he threw himself upon 
he body of his father, and wept until they removed 
him, kindly yet firmly. 

The games still continued in the outer room. 

One man’s death affected them not. 

"27—81—5—6—13—44!” 

"Keno." 

"Ruined!” came in a thick voice from one of the 
tables. 

They carried the lifeless bodies of the Mexican’s 
victims from the place. 

Daylight dawned behind the mountain peaks as 
peacefully as ever. 




THE GOOD SHIP OCEANIC 


3 * 


THE DRAMA—BOOK FIRST 
CHAPTER IV 

THE GOOD SHIP OCEANIC 

“Bend your backs to the capstan, boys, 

Raise the anchor high. 

For the wind that fills our sails brings joy. 

As to our dear ones we draw nigh.” 

Ringing out on the balmy air of the summer after¬ 
noon came the quaint melody of the sailors’ song, 
as they walked around the capstan, raising from 
its resting place the huge anchor of the good ship 
“Oceanic,” bound from Melbourne to San Francisco. 
A long trip, but a pleasant one, at this particular 
time of the year, free from storm and tempest, upon 
a staunch ship, ably managed. The deck was filled 
with voyagers, who with waving handkerchiefs and 
hats, bade a long farewell to friends and possibly 
dear ones. 

Some found use for the handkerchief to stay the 
flow of tears which, somehow or other, came to the 
eyes of even the most hardened at the thought of 
separation. 

A lady and her maid, (to judge from their dress 
and general appearance,) stood upon the quarter 
deck beside the captain, a genial, whole souled man, 
about fifty years of age. The mistress, a beautiful 
woman, whose age it would be hard to determine, 
vigorously waved a brightly colored parasol to an 
elderly gentleman and lady, upon the shore, while 


3 * UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

the servant looked with little concern upon the 
scene. 

All was bustle and confusion upon deck and pier. 
The stevedores, who had but recently finished their 
labors, leaned upon their trucks. The wharf hands 
had cast off the heavy cables which held the ocean 
monarch to the pier, and the gang planks had been 
taken in. 

"We will soon be off, Marie," murmured the lady. 

"Yes, madame." 

A shout from the pier, and a hansom cab drove 
rapidly toward the steamer, the driver belaboring 
his horse with whip and reins, shouting the while to 
incite the poor beast to extra exertion. The occu¬ 
pants, there were two, signalling the vessel as if to 
detain it. The cab stopped and a young man, one 
of the occupants, leaped out, followed by the other, 
a negro, possibly his servant, and throwing the 
driver a gold piece, ran toward the steamer, the ser¬ 
vant following, carrying a heavy satchel. 

Hold on there," cried a policeman. "You can’t 
board the steamer now. She is too far out." 

Follow me, Jup, shouted the belated passenger, 
and before the astonished officer could interfere or 
the surrounding hangers-on realized what was going 
on, he made a running jump and landed full in the 
open port, where the men were stowing away cargo. 
The servant hesitated a moment, but quickly de¬ 
cided what to do, and throwing the satchel to his 
master, who caught it just as it came within reach, 
he too leaped out from the dock. 



OFF TO SAN FRANCISCO.—Page 31. 





























































THE GOOD SHIV OCEANIC 


33 


But alas for human expectations, he was not so 
agile as his master, or the steamer was too far out, 
for he missed the port and fell with a mighty splash 
in the water below. The young man seized a rope, 
and threw one end of it to the man, and drew him 
safe inside the steamer. 

“Mighty near drowndin’, Mr. Al,” he spluttered. 

“Oh, a miss is as good as a mile, Jup,” laughed 
the master. 

The sailors looked at them with a wondering gaze 
and the two ascended the stairs to the deck. 

The captain met the reckless jumper. 

“You have been very foolish, young sir,” he said 
sternly. “You ran the risk of going under the ves¬ 
sel, or being struck by the propellor.” 

The young man looked up with a quaint smile. 

“I didn’t, however, captain, and so don’t let us 
worry about it. I had to make this steamer, trunk 
on board and so forth; couldn’t let it get away. 
I’m all right—nigger little damp; but he won’t 
rust. Stateroom No. 6, first cabin. Think I’d like 
to get them as soon as possible.” 

The captain smiled, while the dripping African 
looked so miserable that all who stood around in¬ 
dulged in an audible smile. 

“The purser will show you to your stateroom,” 
said the captain. “What name?” 

“Albert Andrews.” 

“And the servant?” 

“Occupies berth in my stateroom. Name, Jupiter 

An Unconscious Crime 3 


34 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


Solomon—great combination—a mythological god 
and a wise king of Israel, see?” 

This way, sir.” The purser spoke. 

"Come, Jup; get off your wet stuff, or you’ll catch 
cold.” 

“Done got it already, Mister Al,” shivered “Jup.” 
“Teeth done rattle like cassernuts. ” 

Castanets, Jup.” 

"All right, sah. ” They disappeared from sight. 

“A very handsome young man, Marie.” The lady 
with the colored parasol on the quarter deck spoke. 

“Yes, madame, ” answered the maid. 

“He seems rather eccentric." 

“Yes, madame.” 

“And Oh! what a funny servant. He looked too 
comical with his black face and the water running 
from his clothing, looking more like a half-drowned 
rat than anything else.” 

“Yes, madame.” 

“Can’t you find any other answer save * Yes, 
madame?’” 

“Yes, madame." 

“Then why don’t you use it? You make me nerv¬ 
ous. Try to vary your answers some.” 

“Yes— I will, madame.” 

“That is better. I must become acquainted with 
that young man. Could you not accidentally run 
across his servant, somehow?” 

“I can try, madame.” 

“Do so. At last we are completely under way. 


35 


THE GOOD SHIP OCEANIC 

I am glad of that. I am very fond of ocean voy¬ 
ages. I adore them. Don’t you, Marie?” 

“Yes, I do, madame. ” 

Bing me a deck chair. I shall read for a short 
time.” 

The servant brought the chair, and the fair mis¬ 
tress composed herself to comfortable ease. She 
was fair. No doubt of that fact. The excitement 
had brought the faintest possible tinge of pink, 
(such as one will see upon the ripening peach,) to 
the cheek. The eyes, large and dreamy, are now 
resting upon the novel she is reading, and we can¬ 
not see them. Ah, now she glances out on the re¬ 
ceding shore, and we see that they are deep and 
soulful. It would be hard to describe their color. 
The hair, cut short, curls about a finely moulded 
head, which the jaunty traveling cap sets off to per¬ 
fection. The graceful figure is shown off to great 
advantage by the closely fitting paletot or cloak 
which covers her dress. 

She is a beautiful woman, and more. There is a 
subtle fascination about her that few can resist. 
She reads for an hour, the maid holding the brilliant 
parasol over her head. Then impatiently she throws 
the book down. 

"Look out, Jup, that you don’t fall overboard 
again,” cries a fresh, ringing voice. 

"The stranger with the funny servant,” says the 
maid, sotto voce, and the next moment Albert An¬ 
drews came in sight from behind the smoke stack. 


36 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


He does not observe the ladies, and nearly runs 
into them before perceiving them. 

“Pardon me," he cries, removing the soft hat. 

“It is granted," answers she of the brilliant para¬ 
sol. And a long look, soft, infatuating, shoots forth 
from the beautiful eyes. Albert perceived it. 

“A chair, Jup," he cries. 'Til stay here awhile, 
I guess; providing, of course, the ladies do not 
object." 

“Not at all." 

So Albert Andrews cocks his feet upon the rail, 
and drawing a periodical from his pocket prepares 
to read—and flirt. Jupiter stands near the back of 
his chair. 

CHAPTER V 

A HARMLESS FLIRTATION 

As he reads, or rather pretends to, for he does 
not pay much attention to his book, let us describe 
him. Eight years have passed since we left him, a 
helpless orphan, by the side of his murdered father. 
The eight years have produced a decided change in 
our hero. From a slender boy of thirteen he has 
developed into a tall, well built man of one and 
twenty, although he looks much older. A heavy 
moustache covers the smiling, sensitive mouth, and 
gives him the appearance of a man of thirty. Travel 
and experience have brought out the soft lines of 
the face, and the first bitter trouble of his life has 
caused a look of sternness to sometimes come to 
the tender eyes. 



A HARMLESS FLIRTATION 


37 


A very handsome man is Albert Andrews, at one 
and twenty. A boy no longer—made a man upon 
the night his father met his death. 

He had seen that parent buried side by side with 
the friend who had been killed at the same time, 
and had left the spot associated with sorrowful 
memories, going to San Francisco. Smart, intelli¬ 
gent and willing, he had obtained a position with a 
firm doing a large business with China and Austra¬ 
lia; and had been appointed their agent at Mel¬ 
bourne before he had reached his sixteenth year. 
Once there, he had like many others been attacked 
with the gold fever, and had made a fortune in the 
mines. His servant, Jupiter, he had met at the 
gold fields, and he was now upon his way home to 
the United States, to engage in some business, 
where his gold could be expended to advantage, and 
his busy brain could be kept engaged. 

His eyes, ostensibly fixed upon the book, ever and 
anon glanced toward the slender figure in the easy 
chair. She had given up her book and was now 
conversing with her maid upon the points of inter¬ 
est still to be seen as the steamer pursued its way. 
Her vivacious manner attracted him greatly, and he 
had determined to make the acquaintance of the 
fair one before many hours had passed. He was 
puzzling his brain as to the best means of bring¬ 
ing this around, when Jupiter unconsciously hurried 
matters and brought about that which both desired. 
This faithful servant had been obliged to rise earlier 
than was his wont this particular day, and so felt 


38 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


drowsy. Drowsiness is a peculiar characteristic of 
the African race. They seem to possess the faculty 
of sleeping at any time, or in any place, and Jupiter 
was no exception to the rule, for as he stood be¬ 
hind his master’s chair, the eyelids closed, the head 
drooped and Jupiter slept standing erect. How 
long he would have remained in that position it 
would be impossible to state, but as Albert was 
considering how to open a conversation with the 
lady, the vessel gave a slight lurch, and the servant 
was thrown headlong under her chair. She arose 
screaming, while the maid gave vent to several 
choice adjectives in French. 

Albert arose hastily, and lifting his hat, begged 
pardon for his servant’s carelessness, mentally 
thanking him, while the guilty one rose to his feet 
with a look of startled surprise upon his counte¬ 
nance, laughable to behold. 

"My servant is singularly unfortunate to-day,” 
said Albert, hat in hand. 

"He does not usually perform such acrobatic 
feats as I have witnessed to-dy, I hope.” And the 
lady laughed. 

"No—no. He is usually very quiet and a good 
man, but it seems as if he was bent on breaking his 
neck to-day,” answered Albert. 

"I sympathize with the poor fellow.” 

"He should be grateful to you." 

"Perhaps he is—ask him.” 

"Allow me to answer for him.” 

"Well?” 


A HARMLESS FLIRTATION 


39 


"In behalf of my worthy servant and friend, (for 
such he is despite the color of his skin,) allow me 
to sincerely thank you for the expression of sympa¬ 
thy which you have recently spoken, and also to 
add that I only regret that I have not been placed 
in some position to call forth like sympathy for 
myself.” 

The fair one laughed. "If it will make you any 
happier, permit me to include you in the feeling. I 
think you deserve it, for the possession of such an 
unfortunate one must surely cause much anxiety. 
Really, I pity you.” 

Albert bowed low. 

"And as we are told that pity is kin to a kindlier 
feeling, may I hope—” and he hesitated. The 
soulful eyes flashed up into his own. ‘‘You are an 
American, I take it,” she said. 

"Yes; why?” 

"I inferred as much from the manner in which you 
took advantage of my expression of pity to miscon¬ 
strue it.” 

“I merely remarked upon an old saying, ‘Pity is 
akin to love.’ It is a delightful thought to think 
that we are loved.” 

"Even if we have only met for the first time, and 
have been acqainted but ten minutes?” 

Albert flushed. "You have probably heard of love 
at first sight," he said, and then drew back, startled 
at his own effrontery. The lady replied: "Yes, and 
don’t believe in it. How can one possibly love an¬ 
other, when they have not been acquainted at all? 


40 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


Admiration is mistaken for love; passion, also, is 
akin to it; but in order that love can exist, the 
soul must be subjected to careful examination, the 
heart must be tested, and only a constant associa¬ 
tion can do this. How can it be possible to judge 
by an accidental meeting as to the character of any 
one? We are ever at our best when in public, and 
the handsome costume, the carefully frizzed and 
perfumed hair, the numberless little things prac¬ 
ticed by both sexes to deceive, if replaced by the 
actual self unadorned, as we find it at home, would 
shake the feeling which had begun to form in the 
heart, and cause the love which the first meeting pro¬ 
duces to fly out of the window. But there. You 
will think me a peculiar woman, straight-laced in 
my ideas, while I am not. I know you are only 
making use of these little expressions to win favor 
in my eyes. All men do the same. I am used to 
it. But come; sit down. I want to talk to you 
anyhow. ” 

Jupiter had stood with mouth wide open, during 
the lady’s speeches. But he now hastened to bring 
the chair for his master, who sat down with a 
feeling in his mind like that of the small boy, who 
is showing his smartness to his companions and is 
suddenly called down by his father. He drew the 
chair near her. “Don’t be afraid to come close,” 
she cried. “I am not afraid of you, and I don’t 
want you to feel in mortal fear of me.” 

“Believe me-’’ cried Albert, hastening to assure 
her. 


A HARMLESS FLIRTATION 41 

Never mind,” she said interrupting him. ‘‘I 
know you are not afraid. Now I want to tell you 
something, and I don’t want you to allow yourself 
to be overcome with a sense of your own im¬ 
portance when you hear it, for it will never amount 
to anything anyhow.” 

“Well!” cried Albert eagerly. 

I like you,” said the lady demurely. 

‘I have liked you since I first saw you trying to 
break your neck by jumping in this boat, and I like 
you more now.” 

“And I—” Albert began. 

Of course you like me,” said the imperturable 
one. All men say the same. Now, I have come 
to this conculsion: We have got two months hard, 
tedious passage before us. We may as well be¬ 
come acquainted, and enjoy ourselves. I know you 
will be making love to me, you stated that before 
we had been together ten minutes, but I can stand 
a little of it, and when you get too far, I shall 
open my batteries upon you. I cannot allow’too 
much love making. It interferes with one’s appe¬ 
tite—Marie!” 

“Yes, madame. ” 

“Keep that parasol over my head, and don’t be 
gaping at that ebony monster there. He won’t bite 
you.” 

“Yes, madame—I mean no, madame.” 

“That girl makes me frantic sometimes, but she is 
a good girl in the main. Now, sir, your name." 

“Albert Andrews, at your service; and yours. 


42 


«/W UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"Mrs. Frances Norton." 

A cold chill went down Albert’s back. "Mar¬ 
ried?” he asked dubiously. 

"I have been,” and a shade of sadness filled the 
beautiful eyes. It passed off in a second, however, 
and she smiled her own bright self again. They 
chatted until the huge gong resounded all over the 
vessel, announcing dinner. 

"See what you have done," she cried. "You have 
kept me from dressing for dinner." 

"I think I can censure you for doing the same in 
my case,” cried Albert. 

"Never mind; we are mutually pardoned; but I 
must hurry. Au revoir. I will meet you at the 
table," and with a bright smile she hurried away, 
followed by the maid. 

Albert looked after her, until she disappeared 
from sight. Then with a whistle he turned to Jupi¬ 
ter and gave him a gold sovereign. 

"What’s dat for?" cried the astounded servant. 

"For going to sleep, standing up, and performing 
your gymnastic evolutions this afternoon. It is the 
best thing you ever did, Jupiter. I appreciated it. 
Come, dress me for dinner." 


j 

« 

1 


*AFTER VINNER 


43 


CHAPTER VI 

AFTER DINNER 

“Love seme day must come to all, 

Come to all, come to all.” 

Clearly, above the rattle of the machinery, came 
the manly voice, unconsciously humming the lines 
of the song. 

" ’Scuse me, Mister Al." 

"What is it, Jup?” 

"You done put de napkin in your pocket at dinner 
—mebbe fought it was your hankershief." 

"Did I, Jup?” 

"Sure, Mr. Al, I perserved it.” 

"Perceived it, Jup.” 

"I guess so, sir.” 

‘‘I wonder what is coming over me,” thought our 
hero, as he found that Jupiter was right, for he drew 
the napkin from his pocket, and sent it to the stew¬ 
ard. “I never did such a thing bfeore. How beau¬ 
tiful she looked at dinner;” and his mind drifted 
off to the fair one. “I wonder what material that 
dress was composed of. Looked like fleecy clouds, 
backed up by a rainbow. By the old Harry, but 
she’s pretty. Been married—husband dead, I guess. 
Looked sad when she spoke of it. Confound these 
matches; they won’t light.” He had tried several, 
and proved that they sputtered and went out, just 
as he endeavored to light his cigar. At last he 
succeeded. “Just like a woman," he muttered, 
puffing the fragrant Havana, and pacing the deck. 


44 


otN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“Scratch them the wrong way and they’ll sputter 
and go out. Strike ’em right, and you’ll be suc¬ 
cessful. Ha! Some fellow says matches are made 
in heaven. Great head on that fellow; but no mat¬ 
ter where they’re made, you’ve got to strike ’em 
right, where it aint too windy, if you want to get 
the kindling flame. By Jove, I am growing philo¬ 
sophical.” 

“Yeah’s your overcoat, Mister Al," sounded Jup¬ 
iter’s voice behind him. 

“Thanks. It is rather chilly.’’ He donned the 
overcoat. 

“Were you ever in love, Jup?” 

“Seberal times, Mister Al.” 

“Funny feeling, ain’t it?” 

“Well, when you first gets it, Mister Al, it am 
kinder effluvious, but when you gits used to it, you 
don’t seem to mind it near so much. I done got 
used to it.” This with an air of superior wisdom. 

“By Jingo, Jup, I believe I am in love.” 

“I done know it, Mister Al. When I seed you git 
up from de table, an’ put dat napkin in your 
pocket, I done sed to myse’f: ‘Mr. Al am dead 
gone.’ I remember doin’ de same thing myse’f 
once. I were visitin’ at a gal’s house in Norf Car¬ 
olina, an’ when I went out to git my mule to go 
home, atcherly I mistook de bosses horse for my 
mule, an' rid nearly all de way home before I dis- 
kivered de diffrunce. I jist got back in time wid 
de horse, fer dey was organizin’ a party to hunt me 


f 


AFTER DINNER 


45 


up an 1 hang me fer horse stealing. It am might} 7 
dangerous to git too deep in love, sometimes.” 

“I should think so—Ha-ha,” laughed Albert. 

“Your servant is quite right,” chimed in a silvery 
voice behind them. Mrs. Norton had approached 
unseen. 

“I overheard your servant’s graphic description of 
a remarkable instance of absence of mind, while 
under the enthralling power of love. I must con¬ 
fess that such love must be dangerous, as its in¬ 
tensity might lead to serious results. I hope that 
you will never be affected as seriously as that, Mr. 
Andrews." 

Albert flushed. “I hope not. Strolling after din¬ 
ner?” this to change the subject. He did not wish 
to have her know the incident of the napkin. 

"Yes,” replying to the question, "a solitary stroll. 
Marie is combing out some of my false hair. 
Shocking, isn’t it, that a woman should be obliged 
to cover herself with gew-gaws, fripperies and false 
beauty, simlpy because fashion dictates. Be thank¬ 
ful that you are a man, Mr. Andrews. 

"You are not all false, Mrs. Norton, I am sure 
there is much that is natural about you.” 

"Probably you mean my vivacity, or my candor; 
which?" 

"Your heart is naturally good,” 

"Now, there you are on the heart question again. 
If you persist in talking about hearts and love every 
time we meet, I shall shun you, and I do not want 
to do that, because I like you. I’ll tell you what I 


4 6 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


think would be a good idea. As you are bent on 
making tender allusion to the state of my vital or¬ 
gan, continually, and I cannot stand so much of it, 
I will reserve certain hours when we will talk of 
nothing else—have my office hours as it were—like 
a physician. How would it look to put out my 
shingle: ‘Dr. Norton, hours for treatment of heart 

troubles, 12 p. m. to 1 a. m. ? Ha-ha-ha,” and her 
laughter rang out on the balmy night air. Albert 
looked dubious. 

"Your hours are bad ones. One would be obliged 
to lose much sleep to attend to them.” 

"Persons who are seriously affected with disorders 
of that nature are not supposed to sleep. They are 
out, usually, mooning at that hour. But to change 
the subject, I did not consider you acted very gen¬ 
tlemanly at the dinner table.” 

"Why? In what did I fail?” 

"Oh, in many things. In the first place, you 
never took your eyes off me, from the moment I sat 
down to the table until I had left the cabin. You 
probably did not observe it, but you actually tried 
to eat the soup with your fork.” 

"Now, really—” 

"Don’t interrupt me, it is not polite. It is not 
gentlemanly to stare a lady out of countenance, and 
then not even speak to her, after they had become 
acquainted, too.” 

"I saw you talking with the captain, and I 
thought—” 

"After my declaration this afternoon, you have no 


<AFTER DINNER 


47 


business to think. I told you I liked you, and I 
meant it. So, from this time out, I shall feel neg¬ 
lected if you do not occupy the chair next my 
own, at the table. Then I can see that you do not 
put the napkin in your pocket,” this very slyly. 

"Did you witness that infernal act?” cried Albert. 

"Yes; and so did everyone else. You had best 
be careful, young man, or you will be put in irons 
for that. They are very strict on ship board.” 

Albert ground his heel in the deck below him. 

"It is not kind to remind one of these little 
things,” he cried. 

“I merely wish to make you more careful in the 
future—Oh! isn’t that magnificent?” 

‘ What? my mistake?” 

“No-no. The moon is rising. Can’t ycu see it?” 

Albert turned his head. The sight was truly mag¬ 
nificent. Like a ball of silver, the majestic queen 
of the heavens rose from the water. Breathless, 
they watched it for many minutes. 

“Oh! but it is beautiful,” murmured the fair one. 

“That is probably why the moon is classed in the 
feminine gender,” remarked Albert. 

“And accounts for some people saying there is a 
man in it. very likely. Men are usually attracted 
by females.” 

“Very likely,” rejoined this young man, who was 
becoming more and more infatuated every moment. 

They had approached the stern of the boat. He 
brought her a chair, and drew one closly to her, 


48 


<^N UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


sending Jupiter upon a fictitious errand, for some 
article he did not possess. 

I really think that a moonlight night is too su¬ 
perb for anything.” 

“Even has a tendency to cause one to use bad 
grammar,” quietly remarked Albert, pleased to be 
enabled to return in part the discomfiture he had 
been obliged to endure. 

That is not polite," she cried. 

Pardon me. I felt it my duty to correct you. 
My hours for teaching English grammar are from 
io a. m. to 5 p. m.” 

She looked up into his face with an expression of 
mirth. 

“Now we are even,” she said. "But a truce to 
jesting. Do you not admire the effect of the moon 
on the water—see how its rays cause the dancing 
waves to reflect back the silvery light, in shimmer¬ 
ing lines of dazzling brilliancy. It is too beautiful. 

“And think,” remaiked Albert quietly. "We are 
far from land, with but a few planks beneath us. 
Where the eyes rest upon that shining wave is but 
cruel, cold, engulfing waters, and if the good ship, 
which now bears us buoyantly upon the surface, 
should meet with accident, we—you and I, would 
be carried far beneath the shining water, to a grave 
fathoms deep, and the moon would shine on forever 
on our resting place.” 

A slight shudder shook the beautiful frame. "You 
make me shiver,” she cried. ”It is not pleasant to 
think of those things.” 


AFTER DINNER 


49 


I merely wished to call your mind to the reality 
of things—to the cruelty of your beautiful waves. 
Beneath the surface there is sometimes much that 
is deadly. Then, again, accidents are liable to oc¬ 
cur at almost any time. The ship might spring a 
leak, or catch on fire. One can never tell." Then, 
tenderly: It is best to look beneath the surface 

and see that which is hidden.” 

"Do you think so?” 

"Yes, truly.” 

And suppose that the veil being torn aside only 
the hideous phantom of a horrible dream be dis¬ 
closed.” 

"It is better, even then, to know.” 

A sigh, then the eyes seek his. 

I dread not the thought of accident, somehow. 
The burning, sinking ship would have no terrors 
for me.” 

"And why” 

"You are with me, strong and brave. You would 
save me.” 

"Or we would die together.” 

A silvery laugh. "I declare we are getting decid¬ 
edly romantic. I suppose the moon is to blame.” 

Did she really think so? 

"I mean it. I would put forth any effort to save 
you, and if fate decreed, would die with you.” 

A warm, soft hand clasped his own. "We will 
not talk of death. It is too horrible. I would much 
prefer that you live for me." 

An Unconscious Crime 4 


5 ° 


*JN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“Would you?” this eagerly. 

“’Scuse me, Mister Al; but dere ain’t no such 
thing in your trunk, sah. You must hab fergot it.” 
Jupiter had returned. 

CHAPTER VII 

A FEELING OF ALARM 

Albert stood, silently smoking, for nearly an hour 
after his fair companion had left, for she had gone 
as Jupiter interrupted the conversation, growing so 
tender. He felt like kicking his ebony friend, for 
intruding at such a time, but thought better of it 
almost immediately. He kew that he was in love. 
“Hopelessly gone,” as he expressed himself. “And 
she? Well, I hardly kow how to take her. One 
moment she is laughing, and taking a man’s 
thoughts from him, and explaining them even be¬ 
fore they are fully developed, and one would feel it 
a very delicate task to attempt to make love, for 
fear of being laughed at. The next, the soft voice 
grows low and tender, the beautiful eyes seem to 
read the soul, and the heart feels encouraged, and 
the words of love come to the tongue, and nearly 
make themselves heard. Confound it! I love her; 
and she—must know it. I’ll tell her all upon the 
next opportunity that presents itself, and if she 
returns my love, all right. Rather sudden—never 
met her before to-day. Well, its better to decide 
quickly in these things.” 

“Capen’s coming, sah.” Jupiter’s voice. 

“Ah, I want to see him. Go bring me some 



A FEELING Of AL*A%!M 51 

cigars, Jup. Box with green label, bottom of trunk 
—you know.” 

“Yes, sah, I knows. But leff me tole you somethin’, 
Mister Al. I done got out o’ my bed at fo’ o’clock dis 
mornin’, and I am fagged out. You kin stay on 
dis yere deck till mornin’ if you wants to ; but 
after I done brings you de cigars, Jupiter goes to 
roost.” 

“All right, Jup. Hurry with the cigars.” 

“A beautiful night, Mr. Andrews.” 

“Magnificent, Captain.” Jupiter hurried away. 

“Have a seat, Captain, I would like to have a 
talk with you, providing of course that you have 
time.” 

“I can spare you an hour, sir. We are in good 
waters; no prospect of storm,” and the genial cap¬ 
tain sat upon the deck chair, but recently occupied 
by Mrs. Norton. Jupiter returned with the cigars. 
The captain accepted one with thanks, and applied 
the match. “Ah! Henry Clay,” he murmured. 
“Julian Alvarez, Havana. Am I right?" 

“You are, sir,” and Albert lit one. 

“I never smoke any others if I can get this brand* 

“These were sent me from San Francisco.” 

“Ah!” 

The captain evidently liked good cigars, for he 
paid particular attention to the one he was puffing. 

“Captain, I would like to ask you a question.” 
Albert spoke. 

I will answer it if I can.” 

Puff-puff—clouds of smoke. 


52 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“Do you know Mrs. Norton?” 

“For some years back; but slightly.” 

“Did you know her husband?” 

“No. Never met him.” 

“Is she a widow?” 

The captain sat up straight in the chair. “Excuse 
me, Mr. Andrews, but don’t you think this is a sub¬ 
ject which we are not justified in discussing?” 

Albert flushed. “Probably you are right, Captain. 
It is hardly gentlemanly to be prying into a lady's 
secrets. I met the lady to-day. She—a—interests 
me. I felt some little curiosity to know a part of 
her past life.” 

“Yes; so I see,” replied the captain quizzically. 

“You—a—will pardon me, Captain?" 

“Nothing to pardon, my dear boy. I will tell 
you what I know. It is not much, and will not 
harm her. The lady you are interested in, came 
from San Francisco to Melbourne, with me, upon 
this same ship, as nearly as I can remember, about 
seven or eight years ago. She was not the same 
woman then that she is at present. Some sorrow 
seemed to have blighted her young life, and she was 
ever sad, and depressed. She would sit for hours, 
looking over the stern of the boat, watching the 
foamy waves, as the propeller lashed them, into 
creamy froth. Seldom said but little — seemed 
dreamy and melancholy. I met her often after that, 
when I came into port, and found that she was 
rapidly losing the quiet, melancholy air, becoming 
more vivacious. In time she became the life of 


53 


JEELW^G Of *ALA%IM 

Melbourne. No party was perfect without her. 
She led in all things. She actually seemed to grow 
younger. She resided with relatives, an uncle and 
an aunt, who had accompanied her on her trip to 
Melbourne, and who were dear friends of mine. I 
incidentally inquired as to the niece’s former his¬ 
tory one day, while smoking an after dinner cigar 
with the old gentleman. He at once hermetically 
sealed his lips and vouchsafed no information, save 
that she had been married, unhappily, and that he 
had brought her to Australia to bring back her 
health. ‘I have been successful, as you can see,’ 
he said. 

“I asked no more questions, content to be satisfied 
with what I already knew. Now, young sir, that is 
about all I know.” 

A dead silence for ten minutes. “And she is re¬ 
turning to ’Frisco?” at last spoke Albert. 

"Yes. Some business concerning the settlement 
of an estate, I believe. Her uncle was the stout 
gentleman, accompanied by an elderly lady. You 
might have observed them standing on the pier as 
you embarked.” 

Albert smiled. “I got on board so quickly that 
I had but little time to observe anything,” he re¬ 
marked. 

"Ah; I remember. You did land in the lower 
port rather precipitately,” and an audible smile 
proceeded from the captain. 

"I accidentally became acquainted with the lady 
a few hours after we had started. She interests me." 


54 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


The captain turned in his chair. 

“If you will pardon me, my boy, I would offer 
some friendly advice. Do not become too deply in¬ 
terested in Frances Norton." 

“And why?" 

“To my positive knowledge, she has had the 
wealth and hearts of all the marriageable portion 
of Melbourne at her feet during the past five years. 
She has refused all offers." 

“You don t think—’ 

“Yes, my boy; I do think that you are becoming 
infatuated with this charming lady. I have reasons 
for thinking so." 

“What?" 

“I observed you at dinner. I am an older man 
than you—probably better versed in the study of 
human nature than most men. I saw how you 
looked at her. I observed you put one of the table 
napkins in your pocket." 

Albert felt himself growing red in the face. 

“This is the third time I have had that unfortu¬ 
nate circumstance recalled. It seems as if everyone 
observed my absence of mind.” 

The captain smiled. 

“There is no doubt but what every one did." 

“Is that an indication of love?” 

“I take it for such." 

“It shall never occur again." 

“Do not be too sure of that. A man in love is 
often liable to forget himself. In fact, he is not 
accountable for what he does." 


55 


A FEELING Of ALzA c EpA 

“Suppose I admit I am in love, and say I propose 
to try and win this lady?” 

“I would wish you God speed, my boy, doubting 
the fact, however, of your being successful.” 

“Then you think she would refuse me?” 

“She has refused others.” 

“I may be different from others.” 

“I have heard of men engaging in business which 
has ruined others, claiming the same thing. I 
have seen them also fail.” 

“And some have been successful.” 

“My boy, they are in the minority.” 

“I may be like them; rather the minority with 
success, than the large majority with failure. Our 
wealthy men are in the minority.” 

“True. You can try.” 

“I propose to.” 

A sailor approached. 

"I would like to speak to you, sir,” he said, re¬ 
spectfully touching his hat. 

“Excuse me, my boy; some business, perhaps, 
causes this intrusion.” 

Albert bowed. The captain walked away with his 
subordinate. They were soon conversing rapidly. 
He saw the captain put his hand to his head, as if 
worried. 

“I don’t like that,” he heard him say. The sail¬ 
or, evidently obeying some order of the commander, 
walked rapidly away. ' 

Albert approached the captain, who seemed in 
deep thought. 


56 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“Anything serious? ’ he asked. 

The occupied man turned, and recognizing the 
speaker, answered: 

“I hope not. Can you keep a secret?" 

“I am not a woman !" 

“Ha! No. I suppose not. The man has just 
reported one of the sailors sick—confined to his 
bunk." 

“Is that all?" 

“It is a great deal sometimes, young man." He 
spoke testily. “Sickness at sea is not always ac¬ 
companied with favorable results." 

“Pardon me; it may not be serious." 

“I hardly think so, but I don’t like it. Did you 
ever witness a burial at sea?" 

“Never." 

“Then you cannot realize how sorrowful an effect 
it produces upon the minds of all." 

“He may recover.” 

“I hope so. Still, it causes a feeling of alarm. 
Excuse me; I must leave you. I must investigate 
this sudden sickness." 

“And if it is dangerous?" 

“If it is contagious, I shall turn back to Mel¬ 
bourne. " 

“That would be unpleasant." 

'I am aware of that: Sailors are superstitious; 
they believe that all luck deserts a ship when it 
once turns back from a voyage." 

“Then you will hardly do so, unless it is some¬ 
thing very serious." 


% 



HE TAKES A CHAIR NEAR HER AND WAITS FOR HER 
TO AWAKEN.—Page 58. 


















ANOTHER TALK 


57 


“No. Good night.” 

"Good night." The captain started to go. 

Albert called him back. 

"Oh, I forgot to ask you one thing. What is the 
name of Mrs. Norton’s uncle? Would you mind 
telling me?” 

Certainly not. The name is John Barton. You 
probably know of him. But there! According to 
the superstitions of sailors, you have brought me 
bad luck.” 

“Have I? I regret it. How?” 

“You have caused me to turn back.” 

Albert laughed. 

“Nonsense! I am not superstitious. I leave 
that for sailors and old women.” 

“And they nourish it sufficiently, heaven knows. 
Good night again.” 

“Good night.” 

CHAPTER VIII 

ANOTHER TALK 

The days succeeded each other with refreshing 
regularity. The sickness of the sailor evidently did 
not amount to much, for our hero heard nothing 
more about it. The man was kept to himself and 
probably recovered. At any rate, Albert came to 
the conclusion that it was not dangerous, for the 
ship continued upon her voyage. 

He met Mrs. Norton at the table often, but for 
some reason she seemed to avoid a meeting of a 
private nature. She appeared as affable as ever 



<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


58 

when ever he met her; but systematically avoided 
him upon deck. This puzzled our hero somewhat. 
He could assign no reason for this seemingly unac¬ 
countable action on her part. 

"I have surely done nothing to offend her,” he 
thought. “She said frankly that she liked me; why 
does she avoid me?” 

This question he found it impossible to answer. 
He frequented the parts of the vessel where she 
usually took her airing; but she seemed to be ever 
on the alert, and changed her position whenever 
she saw him approaching. 

“I must speak to her,” he said savagely, biting 
off the end of a Henry Clay as she vanished behind 
the smoke stack one afternoon, as he came suddenly 
upon her. But try as hard as he may, he finds 
this not so easily done as said. But fdrtune smiled 
upon him at last. Dinner was over, and he was 
enjoying his smoke and a walk upon deck, when he 
suddenly came upon the tantalizing object of his 
affections, reclining upon an easy chair, astern. He 
noiselessly approached her, throwing away his cigar, 
half expecting to see her rise and vanish as hereto¬ 
fore, but she does not, and he removes his hat with 
a low bow, and stands before her. 

He now understands why he has been more for¬ 
tunate to-day. Mrs. Norton is asleep. No doubt of 
that, for the faintest possible suspicion of a snore 
proceeds from her nasal organ. 

He takes a chair near her and waits for her to 
awaken. 


ANOTHER TALK 


59 


She does so, probably from the fact that Albert 
Andrews has his eyes fixed full upon the beautiful 
face. Awakes with a little cry. 

Pardon me, says our young man. “I was not 
aware that you slept. I have just come upon you. 
I wanted to speak to you.” 

A white lie; but it had its effect. The lustrous 
eyes fixed themselves upon his face. 

"Wished to speak with me? Concerning what?” 

"Can you not guess?” 

Really, I am not good at guessing. When a 
child, riddles were my profound abomination.” 

"And yet you make of yourself one of those same 
abominations. ” 

Then I am to take it that I am abominable in 
your eyes.” 

“No—No. You are simply a riddle.” 

"I do not understand you—how?” 

Upon our first acquaintance you were kindness 
personified. You even told me you liked me. Later 
you whispered that you would like me to live for 
you. ” 

"Well?” 

"And now you seem to avoid me.” 

"Do I?” 

"Yes; you know you do. Won’t you tell me why?” 

"Did you ever own a dog, Mr. Andrews.” 

"Yes, several.” 

"Probably you have observed that the faithful ca 
nine at first shows his affection by licking your 
hand. He is content with that; but as he grows to 


6o 


C AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


love you mors, he begins to act in a more demon¬ 
strative manner. Not content with licking the 
hands, he must leap and jump about you, thereby 
soiling your costume and producing vexation.” 

"I can scarcely see in what way I resemble the 
dog. You are not complimentary.” 

“Do not become offended. I am but using a 
simile. You resemble the animal only in fatihful- 
ness, and (shall I say it) love. You have been won¬ 
drous faithful in trying to bring about a meeting; 
faithful to your own desires, and your love you have 
shown so plainly that every one on ship board has 
noticed it.” 

"Really, I cannot see—” 

"Hear me through. If you would be content to 
love me quietly, I would not avoid you; but I fear 
that, like the dog, you would become too demon¬ 
strative and cause much vexation.” 

"Then you did not mean what you said, our first 
night together, upon this very spot.” 

"What makes you think so?” 

"Your actions—your very words.” 

"One must sometimes control one’s actions.” 

"You are incomprehensible.” 

"A very big word.” 

"You are cruel." 

"Mr. Andrews, hear me. Some one, I forget 
who, once said, and truthfully, in this case: <1 
must be cruel to be kind, lest* bad begin and worse 
remain behind.’ Can you understand me?” 

"I must confess that I do not." 



ANOTHER EzALK 


61 


She rose from the chair and walked to the stern of 
the boat. For many minutes she seemed gazing far 
out at sea. Then she returned. 

You are obtuse,” she cried. "I have just been 
looking far over the sea. What do I behold? 
Nothing. Water and horizon. Search as I may, 
along that horizon, I can see nothing but sky and 
water. You do not understand me? I will speak 
plainer. I see you are growing to love me. I be¬ 
lieve your love would soon be as deep as the placid 
sea yonder. I look far out at sea—the sea of my 
life. What do I see? The blank horizon of the 
future. Were the deep sea of your love and the 
blank horizon of my future brought together, they 
would be productive of the same effect as the meet¬ 
ing of the sky and water, yonder—nothing.” 

“But the water does not meet the sky. There is 
something beyond the horizon.” 

“True; but it is hidden from our gaze, and as 
far away as is the sea from the sky. So must your 
love be kept from me. ” 

“Pardon me if I say I do not think your metaphor 
at all applicable to my case.” 

“You do not know.” 

“I do not care to.” 

She turned impetuously. 

“It is best that we meet only in public. Let me 
tell you something that probably you are not aware 
that I know. My servant, Marie, accidentally over¬ 
heard a portion of your conversation with Captain 
Snow, after I had left you that night. She heard 


62 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


you remark something about trying to win me. 
Nay; hear me through. The captain told you that 
others had been refused; but that did not seem to 
deter you from carrying out your determination. 
You must not propose marriage to me.—It cannot 
be. n 

“And why?’ 

“I should refuse you if you were to ask me, and 
it is to prevent you from bringing sorrow to my 
heart, and pain to you own, that I have avoided 
you.” 

‘Then you do care enough for me to shield me 
from suffering?” 

“Alas, yes—too much. But do not force me to 
forget my womanhood. Allow matters to rest as 
they are. It is better so.” 

“But can I not enjoy your society without forget¬ 
ting myself, and doing this which you seem to dread? 
I need not be banished from you entirely.” 

She spoke with an accent of pain: 

“It is better so; I tell you," she cried. “The 
heart of woman is soft, the character proverbially 
weak. I might forget myself and yield, for you 
would, manlike, take advantage of every concession 
to press your plea. No. We had better not meet.” 

“But,” he persisted. “Even if you should yield, I 
would make you a kind, loving husband I do not 
see any terrible after-consequences coming from 
such a match. From your own words, I infer that 
you are free to marry. I know that you have been 
married before, but if he, the first husband, is no 


e ANOTHER TzALK 


*3 


more, there is nothing to interfere that I can see. 
Would it be such a horrible thing to wed me?” he 
pleaded for his heart. 

She buried her face in her hands. He saw that 
she was sobbing. He placed his arm about her 
waist. Night had fallen. None could see them. 
Blessed night, it covers much. She shrank from 
the encircling arm and rose. 

"As I have told you before, you cannot see—do 
not know all, and never can. There is much that 
interferes. You would not understand if I should 
tell you. One thing; there is a great disparity in 
our ages. I am much older than you think. You 
are a young man, and would still be young while I 
would be a garrulous old woman—” 

"You cannot be so much older than I. I am 
young, I admit, but twenty-one. You are not over six 
years my senior. That is nothing,” and he frowned. 

"Albert. I call you by your name. I am old 
enough to be your mother. I am thirty-six. You 
can see that it is impossible. But there. That is 
the least important. You must never dream of such 
a thing, for I tell you once for all, it can never 
be,” and she glided from his side. 

He called aftter her: 

"Frances—Mrs. Norton—One last word." 

She hesitated. 

"Well?” she waited until he reached her side. 

"If this is to be our last private meeting, grant 
me a parting favor." 

"Well?" 


6 4 


UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"Kiss me.” 

She shuddered and drew away. 
"Hear me!” he cried. 


"You have but recently declared that you were old 
enough to be my mother. How I should love such a 
mother. Then, as we are about to part grant me a 
mother’s caress. Give me a mother’s kiss. If you 
cannot care for me as a lover, love me as a dear 
son." He said this half earnestly, half bitterly. 

He started back at the effect of his words. She 
had broken into a torrent of tears. He watched her. 
Suddenly she brushed aside the fallng drops with a 
bold, imperious gesture. She faced him. 

"You can never know the effect of your words on 
my heart,” she murmured in a low, sweet voice. 
“And I can never explain it to you." Then looking 
into his eyes, her own flashing with a look of love 

he had never seen there, she said softly: "Kiss 
me. ” 


He bowed his head and implanted a long, fervent 
kiss upon the crimson lips. 

She shuddered, and from the breast came a sigh, 
and left him. He stood gazing after the receding 


She must be mine,” he murmured, "come what 
may". 

"Mr. Andrews, a word with you." 

He turned and saw Captain Snow, but so changed 
that he scarcely knew him. The kindly eyes were un¬ 
easy and an expression of terror shone forth from 
them. The beard and the hair, usually so carefully 


THE C PESTILE&£CE 65 

kept, were unkempt, and the face looked haggard 
and pale. 

“For God’s sake, man, what ails you?" cried 
Albert. 

“Come with me, and you shall know." And he 
led the way to his cabin. 

Albert followed him. 


CHAPTER IX 

THE PESTILENCE 

The ship lamps cast a sickly yellow glare upon 
the surrounding objects as Captain Snow and Albert 
Andrews entered the captain’s cabin. The worried, 
distressed man threw himself heavily into an arm 
chair and brooded silently for some time. Albert 
took a chair, uninvited, and waited for him to 
begin. 

He looked up, and spoke. His voice sounding 
unnatural and husky. 

“Mr. Andrews. What I am about to tell you may 
cause you to censure me—aye, even severely; but 
remember, I thought I was acting for the best, and 
now it is too late to turn back. We must face the 
inevitable." 

“Well, sir, I am waiting," and Albert showed his 
eagerness in his voice. 

“Do you remember our first night out, when the 
sailor informed me of the sickness of one of the 
men?" 

“Yes." 

Art Unconscious Crime $ 



66 


e AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"I investigated that sickness. At that time it had 
not fully developed, and the ship’s surgeon thought 
best to wait a few days and see how it would turn 
out. We waited, keeping the sick man to himself. 
Upon the morning of the second day the physician 
pronounced the man suffering with Yellow fever!’’ 

“Yellow Fever!” 

“Yes. That dread disease whose very name is 
death. We said nothing about it to the rest of the 
men; but treated him ourselves. That night he 
died. We cast the loathesome body into the sea, 
through an open port, after midnight. We had the 
bunk thoroughly disinfected, the bedding burned, 
and really thought the disease had been satisfied 
with one victim, for weeks passed by without any 
sign of sickness among any of the other sailors. 

“Last night two of the men were stricken down , and 
are even ?iow suffering the tortures of hell! And this 
is not all. The balance of the crew do not know as 
yet what caused the death of one, nor the sickness 
of the others, of their companions. We have kept it 
secret from them. But they will surely know before 
long, for there is danger of the disease spreading, 
and if it does, we are lost, for those who are not 
affected will surely take possession of the boats and 
leave the ship unless we prevent them. Now, 
I came to ask your advice. I have heard you were 
a level headed young man, quick at expedients, and 
ready to act at any time. What do you think best to 
do?” 

Albert considered deeply. The captain’s words 


THE PESTILENCE 


6 7 


had filled him with horror. He had heard of the 
terrible pestilence, yellow fever, but had never been 
brought in contact with it. He knew that every 
one on board might contract it, and the good ship 
“Oceanic” be converted into a floating charnel 
house. He felt at a loss what to say. He could 
form no idea of the best plan to pursue under the 
circumstances. 

The captain spoke again: 

“Come. What would you advise? For God’s 
sake, man, if you can suggest anything, do so. I 
am nearly crazy myself. I cannot think. I don't 
know which way to turn. I have the lives of my 
passengers and all the souls of those on board on my 
hands. I must do something to save them. Sug¬ 
gest some plan; no matter how impracticable it may 
seem, it shall be tried.” 

“Really, captain, I cannot advise you; having no 
knowledge whatever of the nature of the disease, I 
can form no idea as to the best way of preventing 
its spread. I should think the surgeon—” 

“He is like myself, distracted. He is doing all 
he can, exposing himself to danger, for he may him¬ 
self be stricken and then we would be indeed badly 
off. No. He can recommend nothing, except to 
keep the sick ones isolated, and that is a hard mat¬ 
ter to do, for the sailors are clannish, and do not 
like separation.” 

“You say that two are now stricken ?" 

“Yes; but it would not surprise me if five times 
that number were taken before morning.” 


68 c/W UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

Rap—tap—tap ! 

“Some one at the door,” whispered Albert. The 
captain threw it open. A group of seamen stood 
without. They walked in, as the door opened. 

“What do you want?” demanded the captain. 
The spokesman, a burly fellow, with a sullen face, 
pulled at his forelock as an excuse for a bow and 
said: "We has come to notify you, capen, that Jim 
Harris has jist croaked, an’ his messmate, Conrad, 
de Dutchman, is nearly a goner. We think as how 
it looks kinder suspicious, capen, and so we comes 
for explanation." 

The captain cast a look upon Albert that indi¬ 
cated louder than words that his fears were not 
groundless; but he showed no sign of trepidation, 
as he turned and addressed the men. 

“I am sorry to hear that two of the boys have left 
us, but it is the doing of God, men, and I cannot 
do else than bow my head and say: ‘Thy will be 
done.’ You know, Ben, that the doctor and myself 
have done all we could for the boys. We have 
nursed them, given them medicines with our own 
hands, and have tried to save them. I now see that 
our efforts were unavailing, for you say one is dead, 
the other dying. All we can do is to give them a 
sailor’s funeral, and pray for their souls.” 

The fellow shifted from one foot to the other. He 
was evidently uneasy. 

“That’s all right, capen. We knows you. I have 
sailed on this ship, the ‘Oceanic,’ under you for ten 
years. I orter know you, if eny one does. We 


THE 'PESTILENCE 69 

knows your good heart an’ all that, capen, but the 
boys feels uneasy. One of ’em says as how Jim 
and Ben has the Yaller Jack, an’ you knows, capen, 
if it are so, that every doggoned mother’s son of 
us stand a chance of going to 'Davy Jones’ afore 
many days. Now what we wants to know is: has 
the boys got Yaller Jack?" 

The captain fell into a chair. He cast a beseech¬ 
ing look upon our hero that went to his heart. He 
realized the position in which the captain was placed, 
and his brain was soon at work to help him out. He 
saw the men waiting for an answer, and realized that 
the captain was in a quandary what to do. He felt 
that the sailors would grow more suspicious unless 
some reply was made to their question at once; and 
so, scarcely knowing what he said, he came forward 
and addressed them. 

“Can’t you see, men, that your captain is weak 
and nervous? He has had a great strain upon his 
mind, owing to the sickness of your comrades, and 
now their death grieves him sorely. I will say for 
him that I believe your fears to be groundless, and 
in order to show you that I really think so, I will 
go with you to the place where your companion lies 
dead, and help you prepare him for burial. Come. 

I am a passenger, but I will show you that I am 
not afraid." 

“Good." murmured the sailors. 

“That’s all we wants, sir," said Ben respectfully, 

“Assurance that all is right. We will show you 
the way, sir. Beg parding capen, fer intrudin;" 


70 <AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

and they stepped outside. The captain seized our 
hero’s arm. 

"You must not expose yourself," he whispered. 
"Your action is a noble one, but I cannot accept the 
sacrifice." 

"Captain Snow," and Albert spoke emphatically. 
"A short time since you asked my advice and said 
that whatever plan I proposed, no matter how im¬ 
practicable it might seem, it would be tried. This 
is my plan. By quieting the suspicions of these 
men, they will work and help us, and by careful dis¬ 
infecting and isolation, we may check the disease 
and they will not talk. If the report that yellow 
fever is on board reaches the ears of the balance of 
the passengers, the very fear of contracting it will 
render them weak and nervous, and more suscepti¬ 
ble. So we must keep it from them. I am not 
afraid. I am young, healthy, never had a day’s 
sickness in my life, and do not think old "Yaller 
Jack,” as the boys call it, will have any effect upon 
me, whatever. Leave this matter to me. I will try 
and pull it through." 

"God grant it," whispered the captain, and Albert 
Andrews, taking his life in his hands, hurried after 
the departing sailors. They led the way to the 
sailors’ quarters, and our hero nearly staggered at 
the fearful stench which assailed his nostrils. 

"My God!" he thought. "This cannot be stopped. 
The odor is fearful." 

A number of men were gathered around one of the 
t>unk§. 


THE PESTILENECE 


7i 


What did he say?” cried one, as the investigat¬ 
ing committee entered. Albert spoke in answer. 

“I come to answer. You need have no fear. I 
do not think there is any danger. I come myself to 
show you that I am not afraid. ” 

A dark skinned, active man sprang out into the 
centre of the cabin. His hair coarse and unkempt, 
his eyes glaring. 

“That’s all right for you to say that,” he cried. 
“Fer you don’t know. I have seed this thing afore. 
I knows what it is. Jim is dead and Conrad had 
de black vomit a minute ago. Mebbe you smelled 
de odor when ye came down de step. He’ll be 
dead afore an hour. It is yaller fever, boys. I 
knows it, and I can’t be mistook.” 

Albert drew himself erect. 

"And do you think you can make it any better by 
arousing the fears of you comrades? No. You will 
only make matters worse. I said I did not think 
the matter serious. Neither do I. Come, show 
me the corpse, and we will prepare it for burial. 
Be men. Do not allow your fears to get the best of 
you. Be governed by me.” 

The men, sullen and fearful, opened a path to the 
bunk, where Jim Harris lay, a horrible corpse. Our 
hero hesitated not one moment, but boldly advanced. 
His heart grew sick as he gazed upon the loath¬ 
some sight, but he had determined to see this thing 
through, and so ordered some water, and with his 
own hands washed the dead man. His boldness 
encouraged the men, and soon they had the remains 


72 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


of their comrade sewed up in his blanket, ready to 
cast into the sea. 

A gurgling sound from another bunk. 

“Conrad has gone,” muttered one of the men. 

It was true. Another corpse was ready for the 
sea. And while they gazed, horror-stricken, with a 
fearful cry of anguish, one of the spectators fell 
upon the deck. 

“What did I tell ye?" yelled he who knew it all. 
“I know its Yeller Jack, an’ in a week we will all 
be food for sharks. Only one way ye can save yer- 
selves. The boats. Trust to de sea, rader dan Yal- 
ler Jack.” 

The men murmured among themselves. 

“He is right,” Albert heard one of them mutter, 
and the next moment they surged toward the gang¬ 
way. Quick as thought he stepped before them, 
and before the astonished men realized what he was 
doing, they saw the determined glitter in the eyes of 
a brave man,andlooked into the barrels of a brace of 
revolvers, while the clear voice sounded distinctly to 
their ears: 

“You cannot pass! I hold the lives of ten men in 
my hands, and as sure as God sees it, you shall die 
if you attempt to pass me.” 

A murmur of anger, and the men drew back. Not 
for long, however, for influenced by their fears they 
bore down upon the hero. 

“Crack — Crack — Crack ! ! !” sounded the pistol 
shots, and then they surged up the stairs. The living 
barrier was removed, and three lifeless forms 


THE ILL-FATED SHIP 


73 

showed the deadly effect of the pistol shots. Albert 
Andrews lay upon the deck unconscious, while the 
blood streamed from a wound upon the head! 


CHAPTER X 

THE ILL-FATED SHIP 

The frenzied seamen crowded up the narrow lad¬ 
der, to the main deck above. 

To the boats!” shouted the leader, the wild look¬ 
ing man, who had aroused the balance to their muti¬ 
nous action. 

'‘No use goin’ out to sea without pervisions,” 
growled Ben. 

“On to de galley, den,” commanded the self-con¬ 
stituted leader. “Some of us will stop by de boats. 
De oders go and bring grub and water.” 

The idea met with general favor; the party 
started. 

What means this?” came a stern voice amid- 
ship. 

“Captain Snow,” muttered one of the seamen. 

He was right. It was the gallant captain. He 
advanced, and the light of the lantern, suspended 
near, showed his face set and stern. 

“What means this?” he again demanded, drawing 
pearer. 

The rough men hesitated. Finally Ben came for¬ 
ward. 

“It means this, Capen,” he said sullenly. “Both 
Jim and Conrad are croaked an’ three more of the 
boys are layin’ groanin’ with the siehne§§, The 



74 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


passenger, Andrews, lied to us. He said there was 
nothing serious. Black Tom, here, says he knows 
the disease. It is Yaller Jack, Capen, an’ we have 
decided to take the boats and cut loose from the 
ship. ” 

“Where is Mr. Andrews?” 

“He tried to stop us; pinted two guns at us; but 
the boys didn’t fear ’em, an’ so he now lies on the 
berth deck, croaked, I reckon; though he sent three 
of the boys home afore he dropped.” 

The captain shrank back, horrified. 

“Do you mean to say he killed three of the men, 
and some of you killed him?” 

“Dat’s it, Capen,” cried Black Tom. “An’ now 
we’re goin’ to leave de ship. Its sure death, Capen 
to stay, an’ we’re goin,” and he started for the 
boat. 

“Hold!” the voice rang out firm and steady. “I 
am captain of this vessel, and I forbid you to touch 
that boat! ” 

“We can’t help it, Capen,” and Ben spoke half 
respectfully. “Men ain’t dogs, an’ we can’t stop 
here an’ die.” 

“Remember you leave others to their fate.” 

“Look out fer number one, Capen; dat’s my pol¬ 
icy,” cried Black Tom. 

“Men, this is mutiny. I command you to return 
to your quarters, or if you think them fatal, take 
any others you choose. If you refuse—” 

“Supposin’ we does, Capen;” and Tom looked 
savagely defiant, in the flickering light. 


THE ILL-FATED SHIP 


75 


Then I shall summon the balance of the crew 
who are faithful, and also the passengers, and put 
you in irons.” 

A derisive laugh came from Black Tom. 

You 11 neber do it, Capen. Wer’e goin’ an* you 
can’t stop us. Come, boys,” and he seized the 
water-proof covering of the boat, and ripped it off. 
Quick as thought the brave captain raised a small 
whistle to his lips, and a shrill blast rang out upon 
the night. 

The Portuguese, Tom, turned with a savage oath, 
and raised a heavy iron pin, which lay upon the 
deck, to strike the commander. 

Crack ! sounded a revolver, and the dark-skinned 
sailor fell to the deck. 

"Courage, captain; I am with you.” 

It was Albert Andrews who spoke. He had re¬ 
covered consciousness and had crawled upon deck, 
just in time. 

The sailors uttered a deep curse, and then rushed 
upon the two men. The sound of many feet, a 
scrambling upon deck, and the balance of the crew, 
including engineer, fireman, stokers, and cooks, 
rushed upon the scene. 

A few half dressed passengers also made their 
appearance. 

“Mutiny!” called out Captain Snow, and the next 
moment a desperate battle for the supremacy was 
being waged. 

The sailors fought like demons, and the yellow 


76 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME' 


light of the swinging lantern reflected the glittering 
knives as they did their deadly work. 

Albert leaned upon the guard rail, pale, weak and 
exhausted. 

"You are hurt,” a sweet voice at his side spoke 
the words. 

"Badly.” He turned and saw Mrs. Norton, in a 
loose, flowing wrapper, with a wrap thrown around 
her shoulders, the beautiful hair unconfined, and 
falling in waves to her waist. 

"Oh, I am so sorry. What is the trouble?” 

"Come away. I will tell you.” They walked to 
the stem of the boat. He seized her hand. 

"We are face to face with horrible death,” he 
whispered hoarsely. "The men are dying with the 
terrible scourge, yellow fever. Some of them have 
attempted to take possession of the boats, and leave 
the vessel. I tried to stop them. This is the re¬ 
sult,” pointing grimly to the wound upon his head. 

"They will be confined, however, for they cannot 
stand the force opposed to them; but that will not 
improve our condition. In a week we may all be 
dead.” 

She looked up into his face. 

"Albert," and the voice spoke tenderly. "You 
remember I told you once that in time of danger I 
knew that you, brave and strong, would save me. 
I repeat those words. I believe it to-night.” 

He pressed the hand to his lips. 

"I will try!” he cried. "Or, to use my word§ 
of that night; we will die together." 


THE ILL-FATED SHIP 


77 


She shuddered. 

It is horrible—the thought of this loathsome 
disease.” 

He forced her into a chair. He was sitting beside 
her. 

“Do you also remember that you told me you 
would prefer having me live for you?” the voice was 
husky, but so eager. 

"Yes—I remember.” 

“Then listen. I shall try to save you, and my¬ 
self. And if it should be that we survive, will you 
remember then that I saved you for myself; that I 
tried to live for your sake. Will you be mine?’ 

The beautiful head drooped low. 

‘’Come!” he continued. “We are threatened with 
a horrible death. But fate may decree that we es¬ 
cape. In the presence of death, there should be no 
secrets. I tell you I love you. Speak, answer me. 
Do you love me?" 

"Yes;” very low. 

"And if we survive, you will be mine?” 

"If heaven decrees. Yes.” 

He clasped her in his arms. 

The sound of the struggle grew less. The sailors 
had been overpowered. 

“Come!” cried the rapturous lover. “Come! I 
will conduct you to your cabin. Sleep, and feel 
safe. I will save you!” 

He left her at the state room; the frightened 
French maid was awaitiner her coming. 


73 


<^n unconscious crime 


“Thank heaven Madame! you have returned!" she 
cried. 

“Good night!" cried Albert; and she vanished 
from his sight. 

He ran briskly to the deck. He felt not the pain 
from his wound. He thought not of the threaten¬ 
ing danger. She had promised to be his—his own. 
He would save her. He loved her. 

He ran into the captain as he hurried up the 
ladder. 

“The mutineers?” he cried. 

“They are secured,” answered the captain gravely. 
They stood together on the deck. 

“I am sorry for this;” and Captain Snow spoke 
regretfully. “Many of those men have been with 
me for years. They were influenced by fear, and 
thought not of what they were doing. It was nec¬ 
essary to confine them, however, for they would have 
ruined us. It leaves us short handed. We need 
nurses for the sick." 

“I will assist you.” 

“I do not ask it, my boy. You have done too 
much already." 

The doctor hurried by, his hands full of bottles 
and packages. 

“I am going to those lately stricken," he said. “I 
am afraid the plague will spread with greater rapid¬ 
ity than we anticipated.” 

“Do all you can, Doctor, to check it." 

I am, Captain; but one man cannot do much. 
I am not well myself.” He hastened on his way. 


THE ILL-FA TED SHIP 


79 


The next day he was stricken down. He died in 
horrible agony. The disease spread with devilish 
rapidity. Left without a physician, the captain 
could not do much. With the assistance of some 
of the passengers, Albert being foremost, he ad¬ 
ministered the medicines and cooling draughts as 
well as could be done. Naught seemed to check the 
pestilence. One by one, the men dropped off, thrown 
into the sea by companions, who in turn fell victims 
to the disease. The mutineers were still confined. 
They seemed to be free from the contagion, for not one 
of them had yet been attacked. Many of the pas¬ 
sengers had succumbed, and had been given the 
sailor’s burial. All were horror-stricken. Albert 
stood one day, weak and despondent by the guard 
rail. A light step sounded behind him. 

"For God’s sake, Albert, come to Marie. I fear 
she has contracted the fever.” 

It was his betrothed. 

With a sickening fear at his heart he followed her. 

The poor girl was wildly throwing her arms about 
her, as she lay upon the bunk. 

"Pierre Amo,” she murmured as they entered. 

"She speaks of her lover,” murmured Frances. 

Albert drew near the couch. The girl was raving 
now, delirious. As they watched, the features con¬ 
tracted as it in pain, the voice arose in shrieks; a 
frantic convulsion, a stiffening of the frame, and 
Marie was dead. 

"I am alone!” shrieked the terror stricken woman, 
as she threw herself upon the bed. 


So 


<vW UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

Albert gently raised her. 

No. I am with you.” He spoke very gently; 
she looked up inco his face. 

“I had forgotten you,” she murmured. 

He persuaded her to leave the dead girl, and con¬ 
ducted her to another cabin. There were plenty of 
vacant ones, alas. Their former occupants were 
sleeping their last sleep in the depths of the sea. 
He left her. 

Returning through the saloon he met the steward. 

The poor fellow looked haggard. Tears shone 
in his eyes. 

"Ah, Mr. Andrews, what will become of us, now 
sir?” he cried. 

^Why? Has anything more serious occurred?” 

The captain has just passed away, sir. We are 
without a commander. 

Albert felt his heart sink. Truly they were desti¬ 
tute. 

What would they do now? They disposed of the 
body of the kind captain and faithful commander, 
Albert reading the burial service. 

All of the subordinate officers had succumbed 

several days before, so the steward was next in 
rank. 

He took command, but not for long. He too 
died. Oh, God! How long can this last? 

Albert was informed of the death of the stew¬ 
ard as he arose one morning, Jupiter bringing the 
news. 

He scarcely heard the words. He felt strangely. 


8r 


^DESERTED 

A racking headache and a severe pain in the region 
of the kidneys nearly drove him wild. He strove to 
dress, but gave it up. He could not stand. A 
fearful thought flashed through his brain. 

“I am stricken with the fever!” He became un¬ 
conscious. 


CHAPTER XI 

DESERTED 

When he recovered, he looked about him. A rag¬ 
ing pain in his head nearly blinded him. His sur¬ 
roundings looked strangely unfamiliar. The furni¬ 
ture of the cabin seemed gilded, and the glaring 
light that flashed from its polished surface affected 
his eyes. 

Throw it out the port!” he shouted. 

What, Mister Al?” he faintly heard a voice utter. 

"That glistening, fiery chair and table. It is 
burning my brain. I cannot look at it.” 

Then he wandered off. The beams in the ceiling 
seemed twisted and bent. They, too, suddenly 
seemed possessed of a fiery heat—heat that con¬ 
sumed him—heat that scorched his upturned face, 
and see, gliding along their brilliant, glaring sur¬ 
face, devils! Black, scarlet, green—all colors. 
Hideous little demons, malignant little creatures, 
each armed with a tiny tri-pronged fork, which was 
red hot, and they plunged them into his helpless 
form. 

An Unconscious Crime 6 



82 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"D —n you!” he shouted. ‘‘Take out those tor¬ 
turing lances. They burn my vitals.” 

The demons leered and grinned, and danced along 
the ceiling. Yes; and they had tails—long, wiry 
tails, that twitched and moved as their possesssors 
danced in their incarnate, fiendish glee. Now they 
were upon him. They had him by the throat. 
They were digging at his heart. 

Suddenly one of them held a bleeding object 
aloft. 

It was his own heart, throbbing, beating, while 
the blood streamed from its vesicles. 

‘‘See his heart;” cried the demon. ‘‘See how it beats 
—for her! He loves her. His heart is for her. 
He will save her. She is to be his bride. Ha! ha! 
he cannot save himself. See! her image is imbed¬ 
ded in his heart!” They had torn the object asun¬ 
der. He saw the smiling face of his loved one, as 
if in a frame, in his heart. 

‘‘Put it back in place!” cried the demons. "He 
loves her. Put his heart back in his bosom. We 
cannot destroy his love.” 

He felt them thrusting the heart back in his 
breast. Then they danced upon it and he felt it 
throbbing joyously to be thus restored. He closed 
his eyes. He heard the pattering of the devils’ 
feet. He looked up. They were dancing upon the 
ceiling again, and they burst forth into a song, as 
he gazed: 

"We cannot destroy his love. Ha—ha! He will 
save her. No—no. She will save him. His love 


‘DESERTED 


«3 

will save him. He must not perish. He shall not 
perish. She will Save him.” 

Wilder and wilder grew the song. The rapid 
whirling of the lithe bodies, the twisting and twirl¬ 
ing of the long, slender tails bewildered him. They 
had gone. 

‘‘Water! Water!” 

The voice was faint and pathetic. The faithful 
servant placed the cooling liquid to the parched 
lips. Eagerly he drank. 

“Where am I?” the faint voice asked. 

“You is in your cabin, Mister Al. You is mighty 
sick, sah.” 

It was Jupiter. 

“Are you a devil, Jupiter.” 

“No, sah.” 

“I thought you were.” 

He drowsed off. He heard the voice of his serv¬ 
ant as in a dream. It conveyed but little meaning 
to him then. This is what it said: 

“De mutineers has been let loose, Mister Al. 
Dey has left de ship wid de boats, and has took all 
de grub.” 

Grub—grub—grub. He did not understand it. 

He fell into a deep slumber. He awoke, feeling 
cooler. A dense smoke filled the cabin. 

"Jupiter!” he called. 

No answer. 

The smoke was suffocating. 

What could it mean? 

He looked around the small cabin. It looked 


S 4 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


familiar. He felt weak. What had occurred? 
Then he remembered. He had been sick. 

Jupiter!” he called again. 

No answer. 

He crawled out the side of the bunk. He stag¬ 
gered and fell, too weak to stand. 

He saw upon the table a bottle. The label read, 
"Hennessy’s Three-Star Brandy." He seized the 
bottle and raised it to his lips. Ah! He felt new 
life coursing through his veins. 

He saw that he was dressed in simply shirt and 
pantaloons. It did not matter. He was too warm 
to put on any extra clothing. He staggered to the 
dobr and threw it open. 

The smoke made him recoil. Why this smoke? 
From whence came it? 

He saw his servant hurrying toward him. 

"For de Lord’s sake, Mister Al, what am you do¬ 
in’’? he shouted. 

"The smoke,” gasped the feeble master. 

"I hab been to find what done it," answered the 
servant. "And I saw, Mr. Al. We am done; 

"De ship is on fire! 

Great God! The ship is on fire, and no one to 
even try to extinguish it! 

Then he thought. The mutineers! the words of 
Jupiter which had come to him as in a dream. They 
had left the vessel, first firing it. 

They were lost! 

"The men," he gasped. "Surely some one can 
try and quench the fire.” 


'DESERTED 


85 

"Mr. Al," came the answer solemnly. "You and 
me will soon be de only livin’ people on dis ship." 

Could this be true! All dead—all, the victims of 
the deadly fever. 

"My God! My love," he thought. The burning 
words flashed through his brain. Could she, too, 
be dead? He dreaded to ask the question. Finally, 
weakly he whispered: 

“Mrs. Norton. What of her?” 

She must be dead by dis time, sah. I saw her 
dis mornin’ at de last gasp. 

“She dead! No—no. It cannot be.” He stag¬ 
gered back upon one of the saloon sofas. Wild 
thoughts came to him. His brain reeled. A surg¬ 
ing, as if many waters had swept over him, came to 
him. What was that? Music? Yes—some one 
singing. He heard the words: 

“His love will save him. He will save her. No 
—no. We cannot destroy his love. She must not 
perish. She shall not perish. He opened his 
eyes. He saw the broad saloon peopled with the 
many-colored demons of his fever. They beckoned 
to him, their glittering eyes piercing to his soul. 

“Come and save her,” they sang. “Come and 
save her.” They came toward him; they assisted 
him to his feet. Then, with cries of glee, they 
danced toward a cabin —her cabin , where perchance 
she lay dead—dead and cold—dead and cold. 

The words ran through his brain in letters of fire, 
weird and fantatsic. He had reached the door. He 
opened it. 


86 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


Yes. There she lay, dead and cold. “No—no! It 
cannot be! She cannot be dead!” The little devils 
are at her throat and breast. They are endeavoring 
to arouse her. He kneels beside her. He calls 
upon her. No answer. The cabin is filled with the 
smoke. His mind does not realize it. He cannot 
understand it. She must not lie there and die. 
No—no. To the deck ! 

He raises the lifeless form in his arms, the 
demons shouting with glee. They assist him. Yes. 
They are beneath her, supporting her body. Out 
into the saloon. On to the gangway. He can 
never ascend the ladder. 

“Ha—ha! We will help you.” 

The little friends. Up—up the steps. A breath 
of fresh air. Thank God! out in the air again. The 
hot blasts of fire surge down upon them. “Fire— 
we care not for that,” sang the demons. What is 
that? A cloud upon the horizon? Yes. A black 
cloud. It comes down upon the ship. It is over it. 

Patter—patter, sound the falling drops upon the 
scorched deck. It increases. The rain falls in 
volumes. The heavens open. The little devils 
shrug their misshapen shoulders. They do not like 
rain. 

“Ah; but we do—my love and I. We feel the 
cooling waters come down upon us. Ah, rain from 
the heavens!” 

It falls in dense clouds upon the vessel. It con¬ 
tinues for hours. It falls upon the raving man, 
bending over a still, white form. 


SAVED FROTM THE PESTILENCE 87 


It falls upon the upturned beautiful face. 

Thank God for the rain, Oh, Albert Andrews. It 
has saved your life and your love. 


CHAPTER XII 

SAVED FROM THE PESTILENCE 

M Jupr 

‘•Yes, sah.” 

"I am very weak.” 

“Yes, sah.” 

“I have been very sick.” 

“Deed you has, Mister Al.” 

A long pause. 

"Where are the other passengers?” 

"All dead, Mister Al.” 

A groan from the parted lips. 

"All, Jup?" 

"All is dead, ’cept you an’ me an* —” 

"Who, Jup?” 

"Mrs. Norton.” 

"She lives!” 

"’Deed she does, sah." 

"Thank God!" 

"You must keep quiet, Mister Al, or youTl make 
youse’f wuss. I has had a mighty hard time wid 
you, sah, and you come putty near dying, an’ kill¬ 
ing de lady, too.” 

"What do you mean, Jup?” 

“Well, I t’ink you is too weak to excite jist now. 
I’ll tell you some oder time.” 



88 


C AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“No. 1 am strong enough to hear you; tell me 
all, now.’’ 

The servant shook his head dubiously; but began: 

“You see, Mister Al, when de steward done died 
dere were nobody to take charge of de ship, an’ so 
one of de passengers he kinder looked after tings, 
you know. You was took de same morning. Well, 
Mr. Passenger he tought it were a shame to keep 
de poor sailors cooped up, and so, one mornin, he 
let ’em loose. Dey were mighty glad to git out; 
an’ what do you serpose dey done? Loaded up 
Mister boats wid pervisions an’ water and cut loose 
from de ship. I took notice dat one on ’em went 
below afore he got in de boat; but I didn’t tink 
anyting ’bout dat. We couldn’t stop dem from 
leavin’, for dere were only two men, ’sides myself, 
on board. De ingineer an’ his men had died; de 
ingines had stopped and de oder two men were 
powerful sick an’ weak, so we couldn’t do nothing. 
I stood an’ watched de boats out o’ sight, and den 
come down an’ tole you. 

“You didn’t understand me. You was near dead 
youse’f. Dat night de two men died, an’ I frew ’em 
overboard. Two big sharks eat ’em afore dey hardly 
struck de water. I’ll bet every doggoned shark for 
miles round heah has got de yaller fever, dey has 
eat so many men what died wid it. 

“After seeing de sharks eat dem fellers, I come 
down yeah to your cabin. You was chasin’ debils 
all over de bed. I sat der all dat night, listenin’ 
to you, until I nearly got de debils myse’f. I tought 



HE RAISES THE LIFELESS FORM IN HIS ARMS—Page 86. 






















SAVED FROOvr THE PESTILENCE 89 

we was de only livin’ people on de ship; but as I 
was goin’ trough de saloon I heard some one callin’ 
for water. I went to de place where I heard de 
voice, and saw it were Mrs. Norton. I tell you, 
Mister Al, she looked mighty bad. She didn’t or¬ 
ganize me. She looked like she were on de last 
gasp. I give her some water an’ left her to die in 
peace. I come back to your cabin. You was sleep- 
in’. All of a sudden I smelled smoke. I didn’t 
go see what made it fer a long time. At last it got 
so thick dat I made up my mind to go see what it 
were. I left you in de cabin, an’ went on deck. 
De smoke was cornin’ up frough de hatchway. I 
went to it an’ saw dat de place where de sailors 
slept were on fire. I rushed back to where I had 
left you, an’ you nearly scared me white, for you 
had got outen your bed an’ was standin’ in de sa¬ 
loon.” 

"I remember that, Jupiter, what next?" 

"I done tole you dat Missus Norton were dead, 
and you seemed to git de debils agin. You run 
ober to her cabin; you pulled her outen her bed, an’ 
carried her up on deck. I don’t see how you eber 
done it, you were so weak an’ sick. Jist as you got 
on deck an’ I followed you de sky got black, an’ it 
commenced to rain. Lord! how it did rain. I tried 
to git you back in de cabin. No, Sirree; yon 
wouldn’t stir, but stood right dere, wid de rain 
pourin’ down on yourse’f and de lady for hours. De 
rain kep’ up for two days. It put out de fire. I 
opened de hatchways so it could git down where it 


9° 


z/lN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


were burnin’. I got you down in de cabin after a 
while, an* toted de lady back to her bed. You had 
an orful sick time after; but she seemed to git bet¬ 
ter. I have nussed you both for near a week, an’ I 
am mighty glad you has come to youse’f agin.” 

“And she, Jup, where is she now?” 

“Sleepin’ like a baby in her cabin.” 

Another long pause. The weak, almost helpless man 
was thinking over the events; his mind grew dazed as 
the horrible thoughts crowded through his brain. 
All dead and gone—captain, passengers, sailors, all. 
Only himself and faithful servant and, (this thought 
was joy,) she whom he loved. But what was to be 
come of them? Drifting on the bosom of the ocean, 
perhaps miles off the course, where no steamer or 
passing vessel would see them. They lived; but 
for how long? He tried to rise. His limbs were 
powerless. They refused to obey him. He made 
another desperate effort. 

“What is you tryin’ to Jo, Mister Al?” 

“I must get off this bed; I must go to her.” 

“You must do nothin’ of de kind. Lay right 
where you is. Don’t you go triyn’ to git up, or 
you’ll be sick agin.” 

He saw that his servant was right, and so closed 
his eyes to think. He did not think long, for sleep 
came to him—sweet, refreshing sleep, to build up 
the wearied, enfeebled frame; to bring vigor and 
new life to the tired brain. He slept for a long 
time, and felt stronger when he again opened his 
eyes. The room was darkened and seemed vacant. 


SAVED FROM THE TESTILENCE 


9i 


“J u pit er !” he called faintly. 

“He has gone to prepare some food,” answered a 
sweet voice. 

“Frances.” 

“Yes, Albert.” 

“It is you?” 

“Yes. I have come to nurse you, and make you 
strong and well again.” 

“Let me take your hand,” timidly, like a child 
asking a favor. 

He felt the warm hand of his betrothed clasp his 
own. He raised it to his lips. 

“Now, don’t excite yourself,” came the voice he 
loved to hear, warningly. “I am your physician 
now, and you must obey me.” 

“Did ever man have such a sweet physician?” 

“I do not know. We have no time to study the 
matter. Now, lie there, and do not talk any more. 
Jupiter will return soon.” 

“Frances. ” 

“Yes, dear." 

The words went to his heart, they gave him new 
life. 

“Kiss me.” * 

“I am afraid it is not good for you.” 

“I will not remain quiet unless you do." 

“I am afraid you are a bad boy.” 

“I am ill, you know, and you must humor the 
sick. ” 

“Well; just one." 

She pressed her lips to his. He lingered in the 


9 2 


C AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


fond embrace as long as he could. She withdrew. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, and lay back on the 
pillows. Jupiter returned with the nourishment, 
some broth and hard tack, scalded and buttered. 

He ate heartily. It was astonishing how much he 
could eat. She sat by his side and watched him. 
She remained there, her little hands in his, until 
late; then she left him, first pressing a kiss upon 
the thin lips. 

Days passed on. Albert rapidly grew strong, and 
was soon able to sit on deck with his loved one by 
his side. Jupiter, among his other accomplish¬ 
ments, was a good cook, and prepared delicate little 
repasts from the provisions with which the vessel 
was stocked. 

And so they drifted on for weeks, each day being 
a repetition of the one preceding it. They rose 
early, ate breakfast, walked about the portion of 
the deck that had not been burned, each taking 
turns in reading to the other, or sitting silently in 
the stern of the boat, watching the distant horizon, 
in vain expectation of beholding a sail, listening 
to the weird negro melodies sung by Jupiter as he 
busied himself in the galley or about the saloon. 
They had been talking, one beautiful afternoon, en¬ 
joying the breeze as it came from the ocean, talking 
over their miraculous escape from death. 

“It seems as if heaven had decreed that we should 
live for each other,” she said, as they sat side by 
side. 

“It is so,” he answered. “First, we are saved 


SAILED FROM THE PESTILENCE 


93 


from the horrible scourge, and then the deluging 
rain quenches the raging fire in the sailors’ quarters. 
Truly it is predestined that we should be spared.” 

She looked up into his eyes, fondly, tenderly. 
Then with sudden interest: "Have you examined 
the burnt portion of the vessel?” 

"No. I care not to visit it, there are memories 
connected with it that are not pleasant.” 

"Memories? What?" she seemed puzzled. 

"I was obliged to deprive three men of their lives 
in that cabin. I think of it sometimes and reproach 
myself for my hastiness." 

"You did it for the good of us all.” 

"Perhaps; but when I consider that those men 
were overpowered by their fears of a horrible, 
loathsome disease, I cannot blame them for being 
carried away by their fears. They loved life, they 
did not want to die; and perhaps thought they were 
acting for the best.” 

"You must not let such thoughts oppress you. 
Any other brave man would have done the same if 
he had been placed in your position.” 

"Very likely. Why did you ask the question?” 

"Oh, I do not know—a feeling of curiosity per¬ 
haps to witness the scene of so much death, and see 
the ravages committed by the devouring element, 
fire. ’ ’ 

"If you wish to go there, I will accompany you.” 

She expressed herself as being curious; so he 
arose, and they walked toward the large open space 
which had been burned. They soon reached the 


9 4 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


spot, and together looked down into the yawning 
hole. The fire had burned through decks and all 
before being extinguished by the rain, and Albert 
shuddered as he realized how near death they had 
been. “Mighty bad fire, Mister Al,” sounded Jupi¬ 
ter’s voice behind them. 

“Yes, Jupiter; I have been wondering why the 
flames did not burn through some portions of the 
sides or bottom. They have destroyed the entire 
interior. 

“Can’t say, Mister Al. Guess, maybe, dat de rain 
put ’em out too quick.” 

He walked across a charred timber to the other 
side. Suddenly he uttered a slight cry. 

“What is it, Jup?” 

“Nothin’ much, Mister Al; only I’m goin* down 
into de hold an’ look around a little.” 

“You had better not attempt it, Jup. Some acci¬ 
dent might befall you.” 

But the negro seemed to disregard his warning. 
He had already swung himself down into the 
charred and blackened interior. They stood and 
watched him. Reaching the bottom in safety, he 
walked over to the side of the Vessel, and they saw 
him examining the timbers. He remained below 
nearly an hour, and finally forced his way through 
a mass of fallen woodwork into the bow of the boat. 

They concluded to watch no longer, and returned 
to their former position astern. Gradually their 
conversation drifted off from Jupiter’s incomprehen¬ 
sible actions, to other matters, and they forgot all 


SAVED FROM THE PESTILENCE 


95 


about the negro. Night came on, and as they arose 
to go below to the saloon, where the evening meal 
was usually prepared about this time, Jupiter made 
his appearance, blackened and dirty, with an anx¬ 
ious look upon his countenance. 

"Have you been among the ruins all this time?” 
cried Albert. 

"Yes, Mister Al.” 

"Did you forget that we ate?” 

No, Mister Al, and I’ll hab somethin’ ready 
mighty quick,” and he turned to go. 

"What were you doing down there?" suddenly in¬ 
quired the master. 

"I’ll see you later, Mister Al,” answered the ne¬ 
gro, and he hastened away. 

Al laughed. 

"He is decidedly mysterious,” he said. 

"Yes; but perhaps he discovered something.” 

"Perhaps," and he seemed to dismiss the matter 
from his mind. 

After dinner, (or supper,) while our hero was 
smoking a cigar, a large number of which were 
fortunately found in the captain’s stateroom, he 
perceived Jupiter beckoning to him mysteriously 
from the galley. He walked toward him. 

"What is it?" he asked. 

"Good deal, Mister Al. Is Missus Norton out o’ 
hearin’?” looking about suspiciously. 

"Yes. She is changing her costume in her sa¬ 
loon.” 

"I’m glad o’ that” 


§6 *AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

"Why? What in the devil is the matter with 
you?” 

“Don’t git impatient, Mister Al. It am a mighty 
serious thing.” 

“What is? Come, if you have anything to tell 
me speak out.” 

The negro dropped his voice to a whisper. 

“Do you remember when I got down into de 
hold?” 

“Yes—yes.” 

“Why do you s’pose I done it?” 

“I haven’t the remotest idea.” 

“I’ll tell you. As I was walkin’ cross de beam I 
thought I saw a glimmer of daylight through de 
side o’ de vessel. I got right down and ’zamined it, 
an , Mister Al, I done found dat de whole side o' de 
ship was no thicker dan paper. De fire had burned it 
nearly through. I went up into de bow and dere is 
big holes dere in many places. Mister Al, we’re 
all right jist so long as dere ain’t a storm; but if 
de wind blows and de ship rocks, half of de boat 
will break in pieces, an’ if it do, den we’ll go to de 
bottom sure.” 

Jupiter spoke solemnly and earnestly, and Albert 
Andrews knew he spoke the truth. 

They had been saved from a horrible fate twice, 
only to be reserved for another equally as terrible 
to contemplate! 


THE STCFRM 


9l 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE STORM 

Albert walked away from the galley after hearing 
the result of Jupiter’s examination of the interior 
of the burned portion. 

His heart, so light but a few hours before, light 
because his love was with him, by his side, now 
felt heavy as lead in his bosom. He glanced out 
over the sea. It was as smooth as glass. No sign 
of storm there. The stars studded the sky in mill¬ 
ions, twinkling brightly, seeming like a myriad of 
bright angel eyes, looking down upon him. The ves¬ 
sel gently rocked upon the ocean’s bosom, the placid 
waves, softly sobbing as they lapped the ship’s sides. 
All was peace, not a sound broke the stillness. 

“There is no danger,” he thought; still that 
heavy feeling at heart. There seems to come to 
most people a premonition of coming evil. Try as 
hard as we will, that unaccountable sensation which 
appears to foretell to our minds the approach of 
disaster, can not be cast aside. Its still, small 
voice whispers in the ear of our inmost soul, and 
refuses to be quieted. The slightest event arouses 
it at a moment’s notice, and if we go against its 
heedings, and bad results follow, we feel like the 
boy who has been warned not to skate on thin ice, 
and who gets a ducking for his heedlessness. 

“I told you so,” says the monitor, and we believe 
it would have been better to have heeded the warn- 

An Unconscious Crime y 


9 8 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


ing. We think more of these things when they 
chance to result detrimentally. We cry them down 
as superstitions, when they result favorably. 

This creates superstition! 

This feeling of premonition was at Albert An¬ 
drews’ heart. If Jupiter had not informed him of 
the weak condition of the vessel he would probably 
have never thought of danger; but now he eagerly 
scanned the ocean, dreading each refreshing breeze 
as the advance courier of heavier ones, which might 
lead to storms, and the destruction of their habita¬ 
tion. 

He slept but little that night. His mind was op¬ 
pressed by the feeling of fear that had filled it upon 
hearing Jupiter’s words. He arose bright and early. 
The day was dawning as he ascended the ladder 
that led to the deck. The sun was rising like a ball 
of fire from the distant horizon. He walked up and 
down the deck for an hour, and avoided the burned 
portion as if some deadly reptile lurked there. 

“Breakfast ready, Mister Al.” It was Jupiter’s 
voice. He went to the table, Frances joining him 
a few moments later. She looked as if she had 
passed a good night, the large eyes shining and 
bright, the fresh color reddening her cheek. 

“You do not look well, Albert,” she exclaimed, 
as she sat down. 

“I slept badly,” he explained. 

She laughingly advised a little chloral, or some 
sleeping draught, and then they turned their atten- 
tion to Jupiter’s cooking. 



THE STORM 


99 


The accustomed walk took place after breakfast. 
They usually spent an hour or two m walking the 
deck. This morning, however, they did not exer¬ 
cise so long. The sun, gaining power as it rose, 
was terribly warm, and they were glad to seek the 
cooler precincts of the large saloon. 

“It is going to be a scorcher," commented Albert, 
as they left the deck. 

"My! Yes. I should say so,” she replied sinking 
into an easy chair, and vigorously fanned herself. 

“They say these warm days are storm-breeders,” 
she added. 

Albert gave a great start. 

“Who says so?" he cried roughly. 

“Why, everyone," looking up in surprise. "I hope 
I did not make you angry by mentioning the fact." 

“No—no! That is, I—Oh, excuse me for a few 
moments, will you. I am not myself this morning." 

He had started for the companion-way. 

“Albert!" 

“Yes," stopping short. 

“Come here." 

He obeyed. 

“You are cross, and really, I believe you are wor¬ 
ried about something. Are you?" 

“No. I told you I did not sleep well." 

“I will excuse you; don’t be long.” 

“I will not—only a little business with Jupiter." 

“Kiss me." 

He did so. (Who could blame him?) Then left 
the saloon. He found Jupiter in the galley. 


166 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“Jup." 

“Well, sah.” 

“Are you much of a weather prophet ?” 

"Well, sah, kinder little dat way. When I were 
a young man I were held in great dispute where I 
done come from.” 

“Repute, Jupiter." 

“Right sah. Repute. Dem words sometimes git 
mixed. ” 

“What do you think of the weather to-day?" 

“Mighty hot, sah—a wedder-breeder, we would 
call it in Souf Car’lina." 

“Do you think it will storm?” anxiously. 

“Well, hardly," looking out over the sea. “May 
blow a little, but not much, I reckon.” 

The master walked along the narrow passage, 
among the pots and pans. 

“You remember what you told me last night?” he 
said, finally. 

“Yes, sah.” 

“I have been worried ever since. I spoke to you 
just now to get your opinion. If you think there is 
any danger of a heavy storm we had better make 
ready for it." 

“How, sah.” 

“By strengthening the affected portions,” and he 
stopped; how could they prepare for the ravages 
of a storm ? 

“No use trying dat,” said Jup, doggedly. “You 
could’nt make it stronger nohow.” 

“What are we to do, then?” 


THE STO%M 


IOI 


"Only ting I knows on is to build a raft." 

Ah, a raft. He had never thought of that. He 
had not thought of anything, save trying to keep the 
old hulk together. Yes, a raft would be the best, 
for, in case of the vessel sinking, they could then 
trust themselves in the hands of Providence upon a 
frail, but buoyant craft. Yes, a raft, and a good, 
strong one. 

They set about it at once, and by noon had it 
completed, and a good strong one it was—made of 
long timbers, (a portion of the best part of the 
ruins,) tightly strapped and tied to a number of 
panels, then some planks laid across the top, a rail 
nailed about the edges, to prevent either of them 
from slipping off; a yard which could be used for 
a mast, tied on securely, and a small sail, and the 
last resource was ready. No, not quite yet. At 
the last moment Jupiter suggested stocking their 
new craft with provisions and water, which they 
did, in sufficient quantities to last them one month. 
They could carry no more. 

As Albert firmly strapped on the last keg of water 
a light footstep sounded behind him. He turned. 

It was Mrs. Norton. 

"What are you doing, Albert?" she inquired. 

"Doing what all sensible people should do." 

"I cannot say I understand you.” 

“In time of safety, I am preparing for danger.” 

“For danger?" 

“Yes. Who knows how soon we might need this 
ralt. 4 sudden $torm, a leak, would send this ship 


102 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


to the bottom. I am guarding against the danger of 
going with it.” 

“Then there is danger?” she spoke anxiously. 

“There is danger everywhere,” he answered, 
evasively. 

"I know that, but none right here, I mean.” 

He had risen to his feet. “No, little woman, not 
here, right now,” he said, taking her hands. “But 
remember. None can tell what an hour will bring 
forth. I think it best to be assured.” 

“Ah?” 

He did not tell her of the really perilous position 
they were placed in. No need to alarm her unnec¬ 
essarily. 

Jupiter had gone to prepare lunch, and they were 
soon recalled to the fact that they were hungry, by 
hearing that faithful servant’s melodious voice. 

The day passed on, and night threw its sable 
mantle over all; the restless sea, the drifting hulk 
with its precious freight, three human souls. 

Albert had retired early; loss of rest the previ¬ 
ous night caused him extreme weariness, and he 
drifted off into a peaceful slumber, profound and 
resting, as soon as his head touched the pillow. 
Outside, the heavy clouds rolled up from the west, 
heavy, ominous clouds. The gentle breezes of the 
afternoon changed into a heavier blast, and then 
into a tornado. The heavens opened, and rain, 
which had before proved their savior, now descend¬ 
ed in volumes upon the ship. Heavy reverberating 
crashes of thunder sounded through the air. The 


THE STORM 


103 


poor hulk was dashed about by the angry waves, and 
still the sleeper lay upon the berth with a placid 
smile upon his face. 

“Fo’ God’s sake, Mister Al, wake up.” 

He heard the voice in his dreams. What did this 
voice mean, disturbing his slumbers? He wished to 
sleep. 

"Fo’ God’s sake, Mr. Al—” 

"What do you want?” angrily, sleepily. 

“De storm hab struck de ship. !” 

"My God!” 

The sleeper was awake now. 

Awake and out upon the floor of the cabin, stand¬ 
ing, dazed and bewildered, looking into the face of 
the negro. 

“The storm, you say?” 

"Yes, Mister Al. Don’t you heah de ship crack¬ 
in’ ; don’t you feel de rockin’?” 

Yes, it was true. The vessel was being tossed 
about like a plaything. The danger was staring 
them in the face. ! 

"Oh, Albert, we are lost!” 

A white robed figure drew near. It was Frances. 

"To the deck!” he cried. "Better to face death 
than to be drowned like rats here.” 

"Oh! Will the ship sink?” 

"I hope not. Trust in me. I will save you.” 

A tender clasp of the hand and she followed him 
up on deck. Jupiter was already there. He had 
gone upon her appearance. The sight was awful in 
its grandeur. The sky was inky in its blackness, 


104 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


relieved now and then by the blinding flashes of 
the lightning. Sweeping down upon the helpless 
vessel came the surging billows—foam-crested, re¬ 
lentless, overpowering. On—on to the remains of 
the once good ship “Oceanic,” like an army of 
savage furies the waves rolled mountain high upon 
them. Now the ship is lifted high on the crest of 
one of the angry waves; now plunged down into 
the depths. 

The three terrified ones stood paralyzed with the 
awful sight; then, as the storm increased, Albert 
seized the hand of Frances and started for the mast. 
It was useless to try to talk, but he realized the 
fact that by securing themselves to the mast there 
was less danger of being washed overboard by some 
one of the overpowering waves that ever and anon 
swept the deck. They could not fasten themselves 
to the raft, for it was entirely submerged every few 
minutes, and they would have been drowned. So 
Albert made the best of his way to the mast, hold¬ 
ing, in a vise-like grip, the delicate little hand of 
her whom he loved better than his own life. Jup¬ 
iter had preceded them and was clinging to a rope 
when Albert drew near. In a short time they were 
lashed to the tall mast, which bent and bowed un¬ 
der the fury of the storm. In this position they 
stood for hours, spell-bound, awed and silent. 
Wilder and wilder grew the storm in its intensity. 
The wind howling in demoniac fury caused a shud¬ 
der to creep through the form of the delicate 
woman, and Albert felt it as he stood by her side. 


THE z/HJBATROSS 


The vivid flashes of lightning revealed the pale 
faces of the two and the rolling eyes of Jupiter, 
who looked on in horror. Suddenly the ship gave 
a heavy lurch sideways, and the lightning flash 
showed Albert that the raft had been torn from its 
fastenings, and was disappearing over the side even 
as he gazed. He mentally groaned. Their only 
chance of escape had disappeared. If the vessel 
went down they must go with it. Even as he 
thought, the ill-fated “Oceanic” was tossed with 
sudden force down into the trough of the sea. A 
terrific crashing sound which rose above the fury of 
the storm, a violent upheaval, and the mast, to 
which they were lashed, turned, and they were sub¬ 
merged beneath the angry waters. But not for long.' 
The ship partially righted herself and they found 
themselves upon the upper side of the mast again. 

Another flash. 

Great heavens! 

The ship had parted\ and they were being tossed upon 
the raging sea , with nothing save the mast between them 
and a horrible death. 

CHAPTER XIV 

THE ALBATROSS 

The good'ship, “Albatross,” bound from Buenos 
Ayres to San Francisco, had been obliged to stop 
her engines in order to repair considerable damage 
done the propeller during a severe storm the day 
and night preceding. The propeller had been lifted 
out of the water, and the men were hard at work 



io6 *AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

putting it in proper shape, before proceeding upon 
their way. 

The passengers (and there were a number of them) 
stood and discussed the terrific storm—the first they 
had encountered upon their trip. The captain was 
considerably put out at being delayed. He was 
several days behind time, and the delay, although 
unavoidable, would make him at least one week 
overdue. He stood upon the stern, watching the 
workmen. The day was calm and beautiful. None 
could possibly imagine that sooth, placid sea as hav¬ 
ing been so violent and savage but a few short hours 
before. 

“I suppose we will get under weigh soon, captain.” 
The speaker was one of the passengers. 

“As soon as possible, sir." 

"Hum—much damage done?" 

“A crack in one of the blades, that’s all." 

“Glad it was no worse." 

"I certainly appreciate that feeling, sir, in my 
own case.” 

“Beautiful day." 

“Yes." 

The passenger turned and walked away. He soon 
joined a group of gentlemen who, smoking and dis¬ 
cussing some subject warmly, did not observe him. 

He tapped one of them on the shoulder. 

“You are engaged in earnest debate, Doctor." 

The accosted one turned. 

“Ah, general: Yes—a subject that has occupied 
my mind for many years." 


THE *ALBAT%OSS 107 

May I, without appearing curious, inquire as to 
the nature of it?" 

Another of the party, a short, fleshy gentleman, 
answered: 

“Allow me, general, to enlighten you, and also ask 
your opinion." 

The one who had been called “Doctor" slightly 
frowned. 

“I think," he said, “that I, being the first one 
asked, should be the one to answer." 

"No offense, Doctor; none whatever. I, of course, 
do not think your way; and wishing the opinion of 
an outsider, merely proposed to the general; but 
you can put your side first, if you wish. I will state 
my views after." 

“Well, I’ll do so. Now, General, the subject we 
were discussing at the moment you joined us is one 
I have studied on for years, and must confess that I 
have found but little to lead me to believe was 
right, despite my ideas. It is this: Climatic 
effects upon persons of unsound mind. You must 
know that a great portion of my life has been passed 
among the insane and in my practice I have seen 
many who, although not raving maniacs, have been 
decidedly insane upon some subjects; others affect¬ 
ed with melancholia, which is in itself a form of 
mania; the trouble emanating from a weakness of 
the brain. There are some discharged from asy¬ 
lums, who, although they seem perfectly well and 
sound again and are in fact pronounced cured, yet 
suddenly, without any apparent cause, relapse into 


to8 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


their former state again. Now, I have studied this 
matter over, and I have found that in nearly every 
case of this kind the patient had removed to another 
section of the country, and from considering the 
matter have come to the conclusion that the change 
of climate reproduced the affection, as I have found 
they invariably grow better when returned to their 
former habitation. Then, again, I have found some 
whom I have discharged, feeling assured in my mind 
that they never would recover, who have emigrated 
to some other land and have been made entirely 
well again. Now, then, I claim if those same per¬ 
sons were by any chance to return to their former 
scenes, they would be affected in the same way as 
before—that is, they would lose their mind again. 
If climatic changes affect catarrh, consumption, 
asthma, and other affections, why should not the 
same rule apply to those of unsound mind?" and 
the doctor looked up into the general’s face. 

"Now, listen to me," cried the other; "and so 
you can understand it, allow me to enlighten you as 
to the cause of this argument. You know, General, 
I have been located in Buenos Ayres for a number 
of years, and am pretty thoroughly acquainted there. 
My friend, the doctor, I have known for years. We 
were boys together, and tough ones, too, General. 
Well, my friend, the doctor, having a few months 
to spare, makes up his mind to come and visit his 
old friend, and finds himself warmly welcomed. 
We try to make everyone welcome in our South 
American metropolis. We are not heathen, there, 


THE zALEA TROSS 


tog 


although many of those of our sister continent are 
inclined to think so. I showed him the sights, 

among other things the convent of St. -. We 

visit the interior, and among the sisters of the black 
veil my friend sees a familiar face. The more he 
looks, the more positive he is that he has met the 
sister before. He inquires of the Sister Superior, 
and finds the object of his curiosity to be an Ameri¬ 
can lady who had come to the convent some eight 
years previous. He is sure, then, that he is right, 
and after some little difficulty succeeds in obtaining 
an interview with the nun. I say we had some diffi¬ 
culty in obtaining the desired interview, for you 
know they are infernally particular about holding 
conversations with those of the sterner sex, and my 
friend is a very good looking fellow. Well, he had 
a long talk with the lady, leaving me to stand star¬ 
ing at a horribly executed statue of the patron saint 
of the convent in the corridor. On our way home 
he remained very silent, and the only answers he 
made to my naturally curious inquiries were simple 
statements that he had met the lady in North Amer¬ 
ica. Finally, one day, he told me more of her 
story. It seems she had been one of his patients 
years before, and had been discharged as cured, 
with the exception of the power to recall events that 
had transpired before her admission to the aslyum. 
‘Now/ says he, 4 she has recovered the entire use 
of her mind. She can recall each and every event 
accurately; in fact, is as well as ever.’ Then he 
pretended to say that the climate had accomplished 



no 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


what his skill had failed to do, and also declared 
that if she were to return to the land of her birth 
again at any time, she would relapse into her for¬ 
mer state again. I laughed at the idea, claiming 
that if the brain had been made sufficiently strong 
once that nature, not climate, had performed the 
cure, and no matter where she might go, she would 
still possess her complete faculties. We have ar¬ 
gued on this subject ever since, and I actually be¬ 
lieve my good friend to have become incensed at 
me for my persistence in adhering to my belief. 
Now, general, what is your candid opinion?” 

The General looked puzzled, but finally broke out 
into a hearty laugh. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he cried. “I am so 
poorly posted on these matters that I must plead in¬ 
capability to answer. I think, however," speaking 
quietly, “that you are both right in some respects, 
both wrong in others. The doctor, having made 
these things a study, should certainly understand 
them; but allow me to reserve my decision.” 

The doctor attempted to speak, but at that mo¬ 
ment the man at the mast head called out: 

“Something floating on the port side, sir." 

“What does it seem to be?” called the captarn. 

“Near as I can judge, a mast or spar, and there 
seems to be something attached to it.” 

"Living being?” 

“Looks like it, sir.” 

Sharp and quick came the command? 

“Lower the boat and make for the object." 


THE zA LB AT ROSS 


in 


The long life-boat on deck soon splashed into the 
sea. The hardy crew descended the ship’s side and 
were soon pulling toward the mast. The doctor and 
his friends stood by the rail with glasses leveled 
upon the receding boat, and the object of its desti¬ 
nation. Eagerly they watched. The boat soon be¬ 
came hidden from sight by a rolling wave, yet still 
they watched for its reappearance. 

“Some one on the mast, sir,” now called the look¬ 
out. 

“Man or woman?” 

“Seems to be both. Yes; the boat has reached 
the mast. They are removing the objects lashed to 
it. There are two men and a woman.” 

Silence reigned for many minutes. 

“The boat is returning, sir.” 

In a short time they found the look-out’s words 
verified, for the boat was seen, riding over the bil¬ 
lows, fast approaching the ship. 

The passengers crowded to the rail as the uncon¬ 
scious figures of the rescued were brought on board. 
A negro first, with a look of despair upon his coun¬ 
tenance; then a young man, from off whose curls 
the salt water dropped to the deck. Then, tenderly 
supported in the arms of a rough sailor, a woman, di¬ 
vinely beautiful, with a sweet smile upon the set lips. 

As they lifted the gentle form over the rail, the 
doctor, who had stood foremost, watching the sail¬ 
ors, gasped and fell back in the arms of his friend. 

“My God !" he gasped under his breath. “She 
here? What can this mean?” 


112 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


The captain’s voice aroused him. 

"Do you think they can be restored, Doctor?” 

"I will examine them, sir. I can tell better 
then." 

He stooped over the form of the woman first. 
With heart scarcely beating in his anxiety, he felt 
the pulse, and listened for the evidence of life. A 
wild thrill ran through his frame. 

"She will live," he answered quietly, and then 
gave orders as to the form of treatment she must 
undergo. They bore her away. After a careful ex¬ 
amination, the doctor found that life was not extinct 
in any of the rescued party, but gave it as his opin¬ 
ion that it would require careful nursing to bring 
them through. 

"They have been in the water for some time, I 
should think," he said; "and in another hour would 
have been past recovery," and he shuddered at the 
thought. 

They provided the rescued with comfortable ac¬ 
commodations, and the doctor in charge of the "Al¬ 
batross,” assisted by the skillful passenger, did all 
he could to bring back to them the life which had 
nearly been sacrificed to the cruelty of the waters. 

The propeller was repaired, the engines were 
started, and the good ship, "Albatross,” soon pro¬ 
ceeded upon her way. 



*A MARRIAGE AT SEA 


i*3 


CHAPTER XV 

A MARRIAGE AT SEA 

Weeks passed by. 

The rescued party had been restored to health 
again—that is, partially so. The negro and the 
young man had pulled through all right; but the 
lady, although conscious, was still too weak to 
leave her bed. The two physicians had done all in 
their power to bring her to the perfect enjoyment 
of health again, but she had received a terrible 
shock to the nervous system, and her recovery was 
slow. 

The young man had told his story to the captain, 
and it was now well known to all on board. Many 
were the exclamations of horror and pity that the 
recital called forth. There were ladies among the 
passengers and a woman’s heart is ever tender. 
The young man waited upon his sick companion 
with faifhful devotion. He scarcely left her side, 
and as he often met the doctor there, they became 
decidedly intimate. 

The woman (in whom our readers have recognized 
Frances Norton,) was perfectly conscious. She 
knew our hero and gratefully thanked both him and 
the physicians for their care; but she remained 
weak, and it seemed as if all the skill and attention 
that was lavished upon her went for naught. She 
could not leave her bed. 

An Unconscious Crime 8 


U4 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


Albert hated to leave her side. It was only by the 
doctor’s persuasion that he consented to do so at all. 

“You will be down yourself, sir, unless you take 
more exercise,” said the worthy man, and our hero 
finally took his advice. They were pacing the deck 
one night, together. The patient had been left in a 
sound slumber and Albert had accepted the physi¬ 
cian’s invitation to take a walk and enjoy a good 
cigar. They had been pacing to and fro for some 
time, silent, each occupied with his own thoughts. 
Suddenly the doctor spoke. 

“How long have you known this lady, your com¬ 
panion?” 

Albert looked at him, somewhat surprised. 

“I met her for the first time on board the unfortu¬ 
nate ship, the ‘Oceanic.’” 

“You must pardon me, sir; but I have never 
even asked the name of my patient, although I have 
been treating her for some time. Would you ob¬ 
ject to informing me?" 

“Not at all. I thought you knew. My compan¬ 
ion is Mrs. Frances Norton, of Melbourne." 

“Are you sure?” this very sharply. “Why, yes 
—why do you ask?” 

“Oh, nothing; only I thought I had met the lady 
somewhere before; but that is not the name of the 
party I know.” 

“She does not seem to recognize you , either. I 
think you must be mistaken.” 

“The lady I had reference to would hardly know 
me, at any rate." 


A MARRIAGE cAT SEA 


IX 5 

“Yet you were acquainted?" 

“Only in the capacity as physician.” 

Still, I should think she would know you in 
case of meeting.” 

No. The lady was not of sound mind.” 

“Insane?” 

Not exactly. Had been, but was partially recov¬ 
ered. ” 

“Oh!” 

A silence. 

“Is the name Norton, the husband’s name?” 

“I believe so.” 

“How did you learn of the lady’s history?” 

“I know but little. Captain Snow, of the ‘Oce¬ 
anic,’ gave me my information.” 

“Ah! Then he knew the family?” 

“Yes.” Our hero did not inform the doctor as to 
what he really knew. He thought it did not concern 
him. 

So he vouchsafed no further information. 

They parted soon after. 

As they shook hands the doctor said : 

“I am somewhat disappointed in hearing that the 
patient is not she whom I know. The case of the 
lady was a strange one. 

“There was a great mistake made, which I wished 
to rectify, but, of course, this would not concern 
your companion, and I shall be obliged to search for 
the other. Good night, and pleasant dreams to 
you. ” 

Albert looked at the cabin door as he passed. 


e//A t UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


116 

Frances was sleeping quietly, so he passed on to 
his own stateroom. 

Jupiter was bustling about the cabin when he 
awoke. 

“What are you doing, Jup?” he asked sleepily. 

“Jist derangin’ your twilight, sah," answered the 
servant. 

“Arranging my toilet?” 

“Yes, sah!” 

“Am I not capable of arranging my own toilet?” 
sitting up in bed. 

“Yes, sah. I knows; but Misse Frances called me, 
es I was passing by her do’—‘Jupiter,’ says she. 
'Yes, ma’am,’ says I. ‘I wants to see Mister A1 
jist as soon as he gits up, an’ please tell him I 
wants him to wear his white flannel Suit;” so you 
see, Mister Al, as de white, flannel suit is in de 
bottom of your satchel which you snatched as it 
were bobbin on de top of de water, dat night, when 
we come near drowndin,’ I tought I had better git it 
out for you; an’ dat am why I am deranging it for 
you. ” 

“y^r-ranging it, Jup.” 

“Yes, sah. Wonder why dey have so many words 
wot sounds alike in de English langwidge?" 

“That is a question that every foreigner asks, 
Jup;" jumping out of bed. 

“Well, 1 aint 2 actly a furriner, Mister Al, but I 
gits mixed.” 

Albert made his toilet, donning the white flannel 


*A {MARRIAGE *AT SEA 


117 

suit to please the invalid. What would he not have 
done to please hei ? 

Then, hastening to her stateroom, he knocked 
gently upon the door. 

“Come in,” he heard the sweet, faint voice answer, 
and he turned the knob and entered. 

She was sitting propped up in bed. “See how 
strong I am getting,” she said with a wan smile, as 
he entered. “I did this myself; arranged all the 
pillows and all. What do you think of it?” 

“I am glad you are improving,” he said, gently. 
“But you must be careful, so as to not overtax 
your strength.” 

“I will not do that,” she murmured. “I do not 
think I will ever be very strong again.” 

“Nonsense. You will surely recover soon. You 
are only weak.” 

“Nc, Albert,” and she sighed. “I shall never be 
strong again; I feel it. Do you know why I de¬ 
sired you to wear that costume this morning?” 

“I wondered at it a little; why did you wish it?” 

“I dreamed last night that we were in heaven to¬ 
gether. I saw you, robed in white, and you looked 
pure and beautiful. I wished to see you look so 
outside my dreams." 

“You must not think of foolish things," he said. 

“It is not foolish to dream of heaven, Albert. It 
is right, for, my darling, I believe I am going 
there. ” 

“Yes; some day, but not soon.” 

“Yes, Albert, I feel as if it would be very soon. 


n8 v4N UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

Do not grieve over it. It is best to look upon these 
things in the right light, and I really feel that way. ” 

He bowed his head down and wept. A little 
white hand stole from under the coverlid, and rest¬ 
ed gently upon his head. 

“You must not weep,” she said. “I shall be hap¬ 
pier there.” 

He started up. 

“And I. What will I be? The most wretched 
mortal on earth—broken hearted, miserable. No; 
it cannot be. You will recover.” 

“For your sake, Albert, I hope so. I care but 
little for life, for the memories of the past are not 
sweet ones to me. Oh, Albert, my loved one, my 
life has been a sad one, unmarked by any event 
save sorrow, misery, unhappiness. I have had a 
glimpse of heaven since I have known you. These 
few short weeks have been the happiest of my life; 
but it is decreed that the curtain of night be drawn 
across the sunshine • of our happiness. It must 
end.” 

She lay back upon her pillows, one little hand 
clasped in that of her lover, the other idly fringing 
the coverlid. 

He made no answer. Both remained silent for a 
long time. At last he looked up. 

“Frances.” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“Do you remember what you told me the night of 
the mutiny?” 

“What, dear?” 


e/tf c MARRIAGE AT SEA 


119 

Listen. I asked you if you loved me. You an¬ 
swered, ‘Yes,’ simply one little word, but oh, how 
it thrilled me. I said then, ‘If we survive, will 
you be mine,’ and your answer, do you remember 
it?” 

She turned her beautiful eyes full upon his face. 

“I remember,” she answered, softly, and then dis¬ 
tinctly she repeated the words, “If heaven decrees— 
Yes." 

"Frances.” 

"Well.” 

"We have survived. Heaven has decreed that we 
should live. You are mine in the sight of heaven.” 

She buried her face in the pillow. 

“No—no! she cried. “I will not survive. I 

must die. It cannot be.” 

"Frances. ” 

Sobs—bitter tears. 

"Listen, dear. You are mine in the eyes of God. 
You shall be mine before man. You say you must 
die. Then, I say, before death, the spectre bride¬ 
groom, clasps you in his arms, you shall be mine, 
my own. I’ll wrest you from his icy arms. Do 
you understand? You must be mine—my wife.” 

She looked up. 

"Albert.” The voice sounded faint and low. 
"There is much that must be told you before I 
could become your wife. You must know the story of 
my life. I fear that you would draw back in horror, 
were you to know all. It cannot be.” 

He took both hands in his own. “Frances, death is 


120 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


very nigh to you. You say you can almost feel his 
approach. Now hear me. I am content with the 
present; I care naught for the past. I love you for 
what you now are, not for what you have been. 
'Let the dead past bury its dead.’” 

“Ah, Albert, but the future, dear, the future.” 

“Hear me through. If by any chance you should 
recover, and choose to unlock the sepulchre of the 
past, and allow me, your husband then, to peep into 
its horrors, I promise you I shall never feel aught 
but pity for your sorrows, and great love for you as 
my wife. I am a man. I love you—you must be 
mine, even if the grave opens for the reception of 
your form an hour after. I can solace my aching 
heart with the thought that your .soul, in heaven, 
is looking down upon me, and your angel lips are 
whispering, ‘I love you, my husband.’” 

With an effort she sat up in bed. “Do you really 
mean this?” in a low whisper came the words. 

“As I value my soul’s salvation.” 

"You will not reproach me, if living, or curse my 
memory, if dead?” 

“No! Before the Creator of all things, No!” 

She fell back. 

“Your wish shall be gratified,” she murmured. “I 
will be your wife when you will.” 

He kissed the paleface—showered a lover’s kisses 
upon the white lips. His heart felt light in his 
bosom. She should be his. Then let death come 
and claim his bride. He felt divinely happy then. 
He remembered his words in after years. 


Lz/IND AT LzAST 


1 21 


As the sun was setting in the west, throwing 
glints of light through the half-closed blinds of the 
stateroom, lighting up the white couch, and shin¬ 
ing in his dying splendor upon the pale face, 
they were married. An aged minister of the 
gospel, returning home, after years of toil among 
the savages of Patagonia, spoke the words that made 
Albert Andrews and Frances Norton man and wife. 
A singular event happened as he spoke the names. 
She fainted, and Albert spoke her name for her. 

The sun set. Night fell upon land and sea; upon 
the “Albatross;” upon these two, strangely brought 
together, strangely wed. 

Would their life be free from sorrow? 

Time alone can tell. 


CHAPTER XVI 

LAND AT LAST 

“Mr. Andrews." 

“Ah, good morning, Doctor." 

They were passing each other on deck, one week 
after the strange marriage. A bright, beautiful 
morning, the breeze from the ocean blew fresh and 
invigorating, and each had come up to enjoy the air. 

“I would like to speak to you, Mr. Andrews." 

“I am at your service, sir,” 

They strolled side by side the length of the prom¬ 
enade, without either speaking. 

“Your wife seems. tQ he improving," at last said, 
the physician. 



122 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“Yes, sir, thank God.” 

“It puzzles me, Mr. Andrews, decidedly. If any 
one had asked my candid opinion one week ago, I 
should have said that she could not have lived. 
This morning, when I called in, she showed decided 
signs of rapid improvement. I cannot make it out. 
Can you?” 

“A husband’s love, doctor. The supreme power 
has granted my prayer.” 

“Hum; it may be. You are young now. Your 
knowledge of cause and effect is necessarily limited. 
You have not had the amount of experience that has 
fallen to my lot. Although I am a firm believer in 
the ways of Providence, still, I cannot conceive 
how a husband’s love can effect a cure for severe 
nervous prostration, when the best medicines known 
to our profession have failed. A decided innova¬ 
tion, Mr. Andrews. A novel prescription for future 
use." 

Albert smiled. 

“I only gave that as my impression, Doctor. It 
may be that your skillful treatment, so long ineffi¬ 
cient, may have at last shown its effect. You know 
medicines do not act alike on all persons. At any 
rate, doctor, she is improving; so much so, in fact, 
that I am going to try to get her up on deck to¬ 
ward night. Let us- be thankful that such is the 
case; take the gifts the gods provide without seek¬ 
ing to find from what source they come.” 

“Oh, certainly—naturally, I, as a physician, felt . 
curious as to the sudden change for the better— we 


LzAND zAT LzAST 


123 


will allow the matter to rest. Only, if your treat¬ 
ment has been provocative of such good, you will 
scarcely need mine.” 

This last was said slyly. 

Albert took his hand. 

"You have been a true friend, Doctor,” he cried. 
"Your skill has doubtless performed the cure. I 
shall insist upon your continuing the good work." 

The doctor shook the young man’s hand warmly. 
At that moment the captain approached, engaged in 
conversation with the general. They greeted each 
other and the general called Albert to one side, 
leaving the doctor and captain together. 

General Ferdinand Lopez was a remarkable man. 
At that time a man of fifty, none would think him 
over forty. Straight as an arrow, hair and beard 
black as jet, eyes keen and penetrating, conducting 
himself with a military deportment, impressive and 
awe-inspiring. He held the position of general in the 
army of the Argentine Republic, and had been in¬ 
strumental in bringing about the prosperous state of 
affairs that existed there at that time. He had 
held many influential positions in the government 
of the South American Republic, and was supposed 
by many to have considerable influence with the 
present powers. 

A warm friendship had sprung up between Albert 
and this man. During the period of our hero’s ill¬ 
ness General Lopez had passed many hours at his 
bedside, whiling away the weary hours with anec¬ 
dote and story, showing that beneath the dignified 


124 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


surface of the military man dwelt the tender heart 
of the true friend. 

As soon as they were out of hearing he spoke. 

' "I hear your wife is better, my boy.” 

"Infinitely so, sir, thank you.” 

"I am glad to hear it, my boy—glad to see her 
daily grow in health. I called you here to inform 
you of something that came to my knowledge a few 
days since. There may be nothing in it, but it will 
not do any harm to inform you of the fact.” 

"Well, sir." 

"How long have you known your wife?" 

Albert looked at him in surprise. 

"There seems to be some mystery concerning my 
wife, General; that is, it seems as if some people 
were trying to hatch out something of the kind. 
You are the second person who has asked me the 
Same question within a few weeks." 

"Who was the other?" 

"The doctor.” 

"Ah! that is why I asked you." 

"What do you mean?” 

"You must know that our friend, the doctor, is 
under the impression that he has met the estimable 
lady, who is now your wife, before. You must also 
understand that while he is perfectly reasonable up¬ 
on most subjects, he is a monomaniac on one par¬ 
ticular idea. He claims that any person who has 
once been insane and has recovered his faculties by 
removing to another climate, is at any time liable 


LtAND <^T LzAST 


125 


to lose his mind again, if returned to former famil¬ 
iar scenes. I have overheard him engaged in argu¬ 
ment, times without number, upon this subject, and 
only last night chanced to hear him in debate with 
his traveling companion, Mr. Atwood, and the sub¬ 
ject of debate was your wife.” 

“My wife?” 

“Yes. As I told you before, the doctor imagines 
he has met her before.” 

“Yes; so he informed me.” 

“Ah; and what did you tell him?” 

“Simply all I knew. He expressed himself as 
puzzled, the name not being the same.” 

“So he said last night. To use his very words: 
‘If the present Mrs. Andrews had formerly teen 
known as Mrs. Greyson, I should feel the most pro¬ 
found pity for my poor friend, for I would feel that 
he was destined to a future of misery and unhappi¬ 
ness; for that lady was formerly a patient of mine, 
and left my care still uncured, suffering with an 
affection of the mind that I considered incurable. 
Even as it is, assured by him that his wife’s former 
name was Mrs. Frances Norton, I cannot drive the 
idea from my mind that she is my former patient. 
I do not so easily forget faces, and if she is, she 
will certainly relapse into her former state again, if 
returned to her native country.’ That is my reason 
for making the inquiry. You do not feel offended?” 

“No, General, not at you. I consider the doctor 
has little to do to discuss upon such a subject, 


126 <AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

bringing a lady’s name in with it, and that lady my 
wife.” 

“Then you are sure there is no relation existing 
between the two?” 

“Who? 

“Your wife and the doctor’s former patient.” 

“I have my wife’s name from herself, and the 
captain of the ‘Oceanic.’ “ 

“Then our friend must be mistaken. Only, let 
me warn you. He is a man, who once possessing 
an idea, adheres to it with fanatical persistency. 
He has this idea, and will follow it out. When we 
land I should advise you to keep your address a 
secret from the worthy doctor. He may cause you 
annoyance.” 

“Thank you, General. I shall heed your warning, 
and accept your advice." 

General Lopez went below, leaving Albert alone. 
The doctor and captain had gone a long time before. 

Our hero was puzzled. He could not understand 
the docor’s strange persistence. He even grew 
angry as he thought of it. Then there came to him 
the memory of his wife’s words. She had some 
secret mystery connected with her former life. He 
had refused to listen to it. He had promised to 
love her in spite of all. He did love her. What 
difference did it make, who she had been, what she 
had been? She was his wife, now. 

'T will not trouble her with useless questions 
now. Some day she will tell me all, providing 
there is anything to tell. The doctor is mistaken. 


LcAND .AT LaAST 


127 


He must be. My darling has never been insane.” 

He drove the thought from his mind, and went 
below to the bed of her whom he loved better than 
his life. 

He looked into the eyes, beaming with love, love 
for him. Again he drove the hideous thought from 
him. 

“This beautiful creature has never been a raving, 
mad thing. No—no. It is impossible.” 

She was strong enough to go to the dinner table 
that day, and Albert’s heart swelled with conscious 
pride and joy as he conducted her there. After din¬ 
ner a stroll on deck, a short one, for she was not 
strong yet, then back to her stateroom, where he 
read aloud to her until she slept. 

He gazed long upon her face as she lay sleeping 
profoundly, her deep regular breathing denoting 
complete rest, her face as peaceful as an infant’s; 
gazed, and then wtih a heavy sigh went to his 
couch. 

Sighed? Why? He could not have told. 

Each succeeding day showed a marked improve¬ 
ment in the health of the fair one. All on board 
noted this with pleasure, for both she and her young 
husband were much liked by all. She was the very 
life of the ship. Her naturally buoyant spirits re¬ 
turned with her health, and the little circle of which 
she was the queen, were frequently convulsed with 
laughter at her odd synonyms, and ready wit, as 
they sat, night after night, astern, and chatted until 
a late hour. 


128 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


Even the doctor, who by this time seemed to 
have dismissed his thoughts as wrong, enjoyed her 
brilliant society. So on, until one night the captain 
informed them that if the wind held good the next 
day would bring them in sight of the Golden Gate, 
and the next night see them anchored in the harbor 
of San Francisco. 

Clank—clank—clank. 

“Heave, yo ho.” 

These were the sounds that greeted our hero’s 
ears, upon awakening the following morning. 

He rushed to the port and was surprised to find 
the “Albatross” making fast to the pier. 

They had reached their destination much sooner 
than the captain had stated they would. 

He hurriedly dressed and went on deck. 

Here all was hurry and confusion. General Lopez 
was smoking a cigarette on the quarter-deck. 
Albert made his way to his side. 

“Good morning, my boy,” came the kindly greet¬ 
ing. “We have arrived at last.” 

Albert returned the greeting and, lighting a cigar, 
stood silent beside his friend, watching the busy 
scene before him. 

“Mr. Andrews,” the general spoke. “We will 
soon disembark. We will go our several ways, 
probably never to meet again on earth. Do you 
know, sir, I regret this parting. I have grown to 
look upon you as my own son. I entertain that feel¬ 
ing of paternal interest for you. You are young, 
with a beautiful woman for a wife. All looks bright 



ALBERT AND GENERAL LOPEZ.-Page 126 




































































































































♦ 


































* • 








































■* 





















LAND *AT L*AST 


129 

before you. But we can never tell. Something 
may happen you, in the future, when you will need 
a true friend. I want you to promise me that if 
such should be the case you will remember me as 
one ever ready to assist you. Do not think that I 
imagine for a single instant that you will ever need 
my services. Only, remember my words.” 

Albert clasped the outstretched hand with 
warmth. 

“I thank you, General. I make you my promise. 
If ever I need a true friend, I will remember your 
kind offer.” 

The gong sounded for breakfast. As he descend¬ 
ed into the dining saloon he saw his wife in conver¬ 
sation with the doctor. She smiled and left him as 
Albert approached, and took his arm to the table. 

A strange feeling of jealousy entered his breast 
for the moment, but one look into his wife’s smiling 
face dispelled it. 

He simply asked : “Consulting the doctor regard¬ 
ing your health?” 

"Not exactly,” she answered. “He was merely 
warning me against excitement. He says it is dan¬ 
gerous for one of my nervous temperament.” 

He was going to ask if she had ever met the doc¬ 
tor before, but refrained from doing so. If she 
wished him to know, she would tell him without 
asking. They took their seats at the table. This, 
the last meal on board, was eaten in comparative si¬ 
lence. They all felt the parting soon to come. 

An Unconscious Crime 9 


13 ° 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


Then to make the preparations for going on shore. 

Our friends had not much to prepare, all of their 
baggage having gone down with the “Oceanic,” so 
they were among the first to go. Bidding a fare¬ 
well to all, they made their way along the gang¬ 
plank, and taking a cab were driven to one of San 
Francisco’s palace hotels. On their way Albert no¬ 
ticed that his wife was silent and preoccupied. He 
did not speak to her. She was evidently -sad at 
parting. Women are so peculiar that way. She 
was really thinking of her last conversation with 
the doctor. He had met her as she left her state¬ 
room. He had bowed respectfully and said: 

“I would like a moment’s conversation, if you 
do not object, Madam.” 

“How could I refuse you such a trifle, Doctor?” 
she had said. 

They had sat upon the sofa. 

“I have been wondering to myself if we had ever 
met before.” 

“I hardly think so, Doctor.” She had been sur¬ 
prised. 

“Pardon me. Was the name Norton your hus¬ 
band’s name?” 

“Yes—why?” 

“That is what puzzles me. Your face, your ac¬ 
tions are familiar; your name, the one before your 
late marriage, strange. Try as I will, I cannot rec¬ 
oncile the two. You will pardon me, I know; but 
will you grant me a favor?” 

“Yes; if I can.” 


LAND *AT LAST 


131 

“You can. It is but a promise. It is this: If, 
in years to come, you find that there has been some 
mistake made and that you have been deceived, 
will you communicate with me at once?" 

“Deceived? How? By whom?” 

“That I cannot say. I do not know. All I ask is 
that you give me your word that you will let me 
hear from you, if something strange should happen 
you in the future.” 

“Your words mystify me, Doctor, but I will grant 
your wish.” 

“Thank you. Here is my card. You will find 
my address printed thereon ; and one thing more , 
refrain from excitement .” 

She took the card and glanced at it, he watching 
her face narrowly as she did so. The card was a 
plain one, white printed with black ink. She 
read the name; 

Dr. Roberts, 

Physician in Charge, Asylum for the Insane, 

B-; 

She put the pasteboard in her pocket. 

“I will communicate with you, Doctor, if any un¬ 
foreseen event should transpire.” 

Her husband had entered the dining saloon at 
this moment. This is what occupied her thoughts 
as they drove to the hotel. 


132 


t/IN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


BOOK II 
CHAPTER XVII 

AN IMPORTANT EVENT 

"Hush-h;” warningly. 

"Do you think she will die, Doctor?” 

"She will if you don’t keep your mouth shut.” 

"Pardon me; I am so anxious.” 

"I’ll bet you ain’t half as anxious as she is." 

"Albert,” from the bed. 

"Yes, my darling,” hurrying to her side. 

"Take my hand. I do not feel so much pain 
when you are near me." 

"Bosh!” The doctor was getting angry. "You 
will kill her. What does a woman know about 
such things? You must suffer some pain, the 
more the better. It will be over sooner.” 

The doctor was a kind hearted man, but gruff. 
Many of our learned men are the same. They re¬ 
semble an oyster—not particularly prepossessing, ex¬ 
ternally, but good at heart. 

"Oh! what agony!" the patient groaned. 

"Ah, that’s good!” cried the doctor, and without 
further ceremony he pushed the anxious husband to 
one side, and set about his work. 

A few cries, a groan of pain, then a wailing cry, 
and the doctor handed something to a motherly- 
looking woman near the bed; then, taking the hus¬ 
band’s arm, he conducted him outside the room. 


c/W IMTO%TANT EVENT 133 

“Is it all over, Doctor?” 

“Yes—no thanks to you.” 

“I am very glad; she suffered terribly.” 

“They always do. It is natural.” 

“What is it?” 

“Girl.” 

“Another girl?” despondently. 

“Yes. They’re good luck, too, my boy. Now be 
a sensible man. Don’t be a fool, and go upstairs 
and go to bed." 

“But she?” 

“If you’re going to take care of her, why did you 
call me in?” 

“All right, Doctor. I’ll obey you. Tell her you 
sent me away." 

“Bosh!” and Doctor Gross re-entered the room. 

The young husband and father looked at the 
closed door like a lost soul at the gate of Paradise, 
and then walked upstairs. He entered a room at 
the top of the flight. 

“Papa,” called an infantile voice as he entered. 

“Now, Miss Rose, you must go to sleep;” and the 
nurse girl, dozing by the fire, crossed the room to 
the crib. 

“Never mind, Sarah," spoke the father. “You can 
retire. I will sit and talk with her a while.” 

“Well, if you wish to, sir—good night,” and she 
left the room. 

“I’m glad she has gone, Papa,” cried the little 
one, sitting up in her crib, 

“Why, Rose?” 




134 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“Oh, nothing much only she sits and reads out 
of a funny book with a picture of an old woman rid¬ 
ing on a broomstick on the outside.” 

“Does she?" 

“Yes, Papa.” 

"Don’t you like the book?” 

“Oh, the book ain’t much; but when she is read¬ 
ing she don’t notice me. Anyhow, I like you 
better. ” 

“And I love you, daughter.” 

“Well, I mean to love you, too; that’s what I 
meant when I said like." 

“Oh, little girls should say what they mean.” 

“I do, Papa; only I made a mistake that time, 
and mistake take over.” 

"Who taught you that?” 

"Sally. When she reads the book and it don’t 
come out right, then she says that.” 

“Where is this wonderful book, Rose?” He had 
grown curious from hearing the child talk. 

“I’ll get it, Papa. I know where she keeps it.” 

The child was out of her crib in an instant, and 
was soon rummaging through the drawer containing 
her multitudinous playthings. Soon she gave a 
shout of delight. 

“Here it is, Papa,” holding aloft a gaudily cov¬ 
ered book. He took it from her hand, and then 
lifted her upon his knee. A glance at the cover 
showed the book to be “Madame Tissal’s Old 
Witches’ Dream Revelator, and Reliable Fortune 
\Teller f ” and with 3 smile at the credulity of the 


IMPORTANT EVENT 135 

ignorant, he turned the pages. Mechanically he 
glanced at each one, until at last, with a heavy feel- 
ing at heart, he read: 

To a female child , born upon Friday , in the month op 
March , sorrow and disgrace. Fortune can never come 
to such a one." 

The day was Friday. The month was March. 
The new-born child was a female. Singular that 
his eyes should read this prophecy in a dingy, for¬ 
tune-telling fraud, at this particular time. 

“Ha-ha! What nonsense!" he threw the book 
from him. 

“What’s nonsense, Papa?” 

Sally’s book, Rose. Do not ever allow her to 
read its trash to you. It is degrading.” 

“She never will, Papa. I’ve asked her, and she 
says I am too young. I’m nearly four, Papa; and 
Mamma says I am very smart for my age.” 

So you are, little one—too smart to learn such 
nonsense as you will find in Madame Tissal’s Dream 
Revelator and Reliable Fortune Teller.” 

He kissed her tenderly. 

“Where is Mamma?” the bright eyes looking up 
at the gas. 

“Mamma is not well, Rose.” 

“Why, what is the matter with her? She was well 
when I came to bed?” 

“It is nothing very bad, little one. Mamma has a 
little sister for you, and it keeps her away.” 

A little sister? and the eyes opened in aston¬ 
ishment. “Where did she come from?” 


136 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“God sent her, Rose." 

“I know God sent me, too; so Mamma says, but 
how did he send her?” 

“The doctor brought her." 

“Does Doctor Gross know God, Papa?" 

“All Christians know God, Rose." 

“Oh, do they?" 

Silence for a time. 

“When can I see my sister, Papa?" started the 
little one. 

“In the morning, if you are a good girl." 

“Oh, I’ll be ever so good." 

Tap-tap on the door. 

Dr. Gross pushed his grey head in. 

“You can come down, now," he said gruffly. 

The father arose and put the child in her crib. 

“I don’t want you to leave me, Papa," she mur¬ 
mured. 

“I must go now, Rose. In the morning you shall 
see your sister." 

“Oh, Dr. Gross," called the child. “Papa says 
you brought me a sister from God. Where did you 
see God, to get her?" 

“Bless the child, what a question,” growled the 
doctor. 

“You did not answer me, Doctor,” she persisted. 

“I’ll answer you in the morning,” and he made 
his escape. He could not answer the child’s ques¬ 
tion. Who can? 

The father tucked the little form tightly in her 
crib, and then followed the physician down stairs. 


AN 1 M<P 0 %TANT EVENT 137 

The light was burning dimly, as he entered the 
room. 

Is that Albert? called the faint voice from the 
bed. 

“Yes, Fiances. It is I.” He hurried to her side. 

See, my husband, another little angel to love, ” 
and she turned down the coverlid to show the in¬ 
fant, nestling close to its mother’s side. 

“Kiss her, Albert.” 

He did so, and then imprinted a fond caress upon 
the mother’s cheek. 

You love your babies, don’t you, Albert?” 

“More than I can tell,” he whispered. Then to 
his mind came the prophecy of the dream book, 
and he shuddered. 

“Are you cold, Albert?” 

“No, Frances.” 

“You shivered.” 

“Did I?” 

“Yes; didn’t you know it?” 

He made an evasive answer. The doctor drew 
near. 

“I guess that’s about enough love, you’d better go 
to bed, Andrews, and let your wife sleep. She’s all 
right now and I’m going home. Nurse!” 

“Yes, Doctor.” 

“If there is any change for the worse, send for 
me, will you?” 

“Yes, Doctor.” 

“Well, then, good night. Now don’t sit up there 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


13S 

by that woman’s bed all night, Andrews. Go to 
bed; do you hear?” 

“Yes, Doctor.” 

“Come, let me out.” 

Albert escorted the eccentric but good hearted 
physician to the door and letting him out into the 
early morning air, relocked the door, and returned 
to his wife. She was dozing into slumber as he 
entered. She looked calm and beautiful. 

Suddenly the lips parted; the voice came softly, 
but distinctly: 

“My boy,, my first born; where are you now?” 

He drew back. His heart seemed to stop beating 
for the instant. He had learned part of his wife’s 
secret. 

She had a living son. 

She had told him in her dreams. 


CHAPTER XVIII 

EXPLANATORY 

Albert Andrews and his wife had gone directly 
east from San Francisco, just as soon as they had 
furnished themselves with what they needed in the 
way of clothing, etc. 

His check was honored at any bank in the city. 
He was well known. After some considerable trav¬ 
eling from place to place, looking at desirable lands 
at undesirable prices, and undesirable lands at de¬ 
sirable prices, Albert finally settled in a small town 



EXPLANATORY 


*39 


in the thriving State of Pennsylvania, and invested 
his money in the coal and iron trade. 

He was very successful, and in a few years nearly 
doubled his capital. In this little town their first 
child, little Rose, was born and the husband’s heart 
swelled with pride as he imprinted the first kiss up¬ 
on the infant’s lips. He named her Rose, as she 
was born in June, the month of roses, and the fra¬ 
grant flowers clustered about the window of the 
chamber where she first saw the light. The child 
grew rapidly, could walk and talk when she was 
but a little over one year old, and the first word 
she lisped was “Papa,” sweet name, from a child’s 
lips. 

He raised her in his arms and she was papa’s girl 
from that time out. 

Time passed on with rapid footsteps. One day 
the happy wife and mother came to her young hus¬ 
band and with blushing cheeks whispered that she 
was to become a mother for the second time. 

His joy knew no bounds. It was his dearest wish 
to have a son, one to take his place when he was no 
more. He told the wife of his desire, and in their al¬ 
most childish eagerness and certainty, they called 
the still unborn child “he." They forgot the old 
and homely saying relative to counting chickens. 

“Don’t be too sure about that boy,” said old Dr. 
Gross; but they knew best, and laughed at the 
eccentric doctor. The day came at last. We have 
recorded the event. The child was a girl, and al¬ 
though Albert felt disappointed, his heart went out 


140 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


to the little one, and he shared the love in his 
heart between the mother and the two children. 
He was happy, and cared not, if only his loved one 
endured the pain so terrible, and recovered her 
health. 

He considered the words that escaped her lips, as 
he slowly made his way upstairs. 

"She has a son,” he muttered, "by her first hus¬ 
band. Perchance that son is living. She cries for 
him in her sleep. I will find him and bring them 
together. How can I start about it?” 

He ascended the stairs slowly, and coming to his 
room, turned the knob and entered The fire 
burned low, so he raked it up, until it burst into a 
quick blaze; then, turning up the gas, he threw 
himself into an easy chair to think. 

To think how to find the son of his wife’s first mar¬ 
riage, and reunite them, forming one happy family. 
No feeling of jealousy toward the dead entered his 
mind. He was too noble minded for that. No. 
He had heard his wife calling for her son while she 
slept, and he desired only her happiness. So he 
sat thinking for an hour. 

"I hardly know which way to begin,” he thought; 
"being ignorant of her former life, it is difficult to 
understand how to start. I will not ask her; no, it 
shall be a surprise. I must operate in a different 
manner. But how?” The brows knitted. "Ah, I 
have it. Strange I did not think of that before. 
Her uncle, John Barton, must know something 
about it. Now that I think of it, why have we 


THE LETTER TO JOHN BARTON 141 

never heard from him? Frances has certainly writ¬ 
ten him. But no. I have never seen a letter di¬ 
rected to Melbourne. She could not have written. 
Singular that this has never occurred to me before. 
Well; John Barton can give me information. I will 
write John Barton this very night, and I will speak 
to Frances in the morning. Singular that she has 
neglected her relatives for so long!” 

He mused for a few moments. 

Ting-ting-ting chimed the marble clock upon the 
mantel. 

"No, I’ll not write to-night, or rather, this morn¬ 
ing. I’ll—go—to—bed and do it the first thing in 
the morning. Yes; that will be best. My brain 
will be clearer. Yah—how sleepy I am,” and 
yawning prodigiously, he disrobed and jumped into 
bed, and as he turned over upon his side he murmured 
sleepily: 

“Yes. I’ll write John Barton the first thing in 
the mor—” and he slept with the word unfinished.” 

CHAPTER XIX 

THE LETTER TO JOHN BARTON 

"Mister Al.” 

Breaking into his profound slumbers came the 
familiar voice of Jupiter, sounding as if afar off, like 
a dream. 

"Mister Al, it’s past nine o’clock.” 

He aroused. 

"Well, Jup; what is it?” 



142 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“It’s past nine o’clock, sah. I thought mebbe you 
would want to be called. Misse was askin’ ’bout 
you." 

"Ah, yes.” Out of bed in a second. 

"Have you seen your mistress this morning?” 

"Sure. If I hadn’t I wouldn’t a known dat she 
wanted you.” 

"Then you know what happened last night?” 

A broad grin overspread the servant’s face. 

"Deed' I does, sah. ’Low me to ’gratulate you. 
I seed de little gal.” 

"Who does she resemble, Jup?” washing his face 
vigorously. 

"Well, Mister Al; I can’t dezactly say. Babies 
doesn’ look much like anybody when dey’re so 
young. Look all alike to me, sah; like little 
monkeys, sah." 

"Do you think so?” 

"Seems so to me, sah." 

The young husband had by this time finished his 
toilet, so he laughed at Jupiter’s fancy, and left the 
room, leaving the servant to arrange the apartment. 

He looked in at the nursery door as he passed. 
Rose was not there, so he hastened down stairs. 
He found his wife propped up with pillows, with 
a happy smile upon her face, as she watched the 
nurse wash the new arrival. 

"How do you feel this morning?” asked Albert, 
as he kissed her lips. 

"Rather weak, dear; but well." 

He sat beside the bed. 


THE LETTER TO JOHN BARTON M 3 


“ Is not our little one sweet?” she inquired, never 
taking her eyes off the infant. 

He turned and looked at the child. 

“Yes,” he answered somewhat absently. “All 
babies are sweet.” 

“Do you know, Albert, I think I am the happiest 
woman alive?” 

“Do you, dear?” 

“Yes. With a kind and loving husband and two 
sweet children, why should I not be happy?" 

“Have you ever written your uncle about our mar¬ 
riage and the birth of Rose?” he asked suddenly. 

She averted her eyes. 

“No, Albert, I have neglected to do so. b should 
have written him long ago.” 

“You have truly been neglectful. Why have you 
not done so?" 

“Oh, I have been so happy—so much engaged 
with other things, I have not had time." 

He noticed she spoke evasively. 

Why had she not written her uncle? Surely‘he 
would have been pleased to hear from her, being 
her nearest relative. 

“Another mystery,” he thought., “I will write 
John Barton myself, and see if he cannot explain 
certain matters to me. If she has not written during 
all these years, she must have had some reason; 
what could it have been?” 

“You are frowning, Albert; you are not angry 

with me?” 

He kissed her hastily. 


144 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"No, dear; not angry—only thinking.” 

"Of what?" 

"Many things. You will know some day.” 

"Here’s the little dear all ready for its mamma,” 
spoke the nurse at this moment, approaching the 
bedside with the infant. 

“I’ll go see about some breakfast,” said Albert, 
rising and making room for the woman. 

"You are sure you are not angry with me, Albert?” 
and the wife spoke anxiously. 

"No—no; not angry with you. Why should I 
be?” 

"I thought, perhaps because I didn’t write or 
something. ” 

"That is your own affair, little woman. I did con¬ 
sider it strange, but as you are ever wise, I have 
come to the conclusion that you had some good rea¬ 
son for not doing so.” 

"I had a reason, Albert. Some day you will un¬ 
derstand.” She spoke earnestly. Her tone mystified 
him. He thought over it while eating his solitary 
breakfast, reviewing it in this light. Four years 
and some months had passed since they landed in 
San Francisco. The account of the wreck of the 
"Oceanic” must have surely been published in all 
newspapers, the world over, and the relatives of his 
wife must certainly have felt anxiety; yet she had 
allowed them to suffer for all these years, perhaps 
mourning her as dead. She had not even informed 
them of her second marriage, nor the birth of her 
child. 


THE LETTER TO JOHN BARTON 145 

"Why has she acted in this way?” This thought 
tortured his mind. Then his mind went back 
through the years past. He recalled every little 
thing in connection with their meeting and after 
acquaintance; how she avoided him, after encourag¬ 
ing him; how she had promised to be his wife, "If 
heaven decreed;” the doctor’s words; the general’s 
story. All came vividly to him. 

I should have allowed her to tell me her story," 
he muttered. "This mystery deepens. I would 
feel like a cur to go to her and demand an expla¬ 
nation of all now. Yet I must know. I’ll write 
John Barton. He can tell me all." 

"Papa. Papa.” 

He aroused himself with a start. 

"I have been speaking to you for a long time, 
and you never noticed me; what are you thinking 
about, Papa?” and little Rose clambered up on her 
father’s knee. He kissed her. 

"I must have been thinking of something very 
serious, not to have heard my little girl,” he an¬ 
swered. 

"Tell me, Papa.” 

"Little girls must not become too curious.” 

"Papa, do you know what Jup says?" 

"A great many things besides his prayers, little 
one. ” 

"I know that, but this one thing; when I ask him 
too many questions, he says: ‘I s’pose it is natcheral 
for women to be curious, an’ you is a little woman, 

An Unconscious Crime io 


146 <MN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

Miss Rose.’ I think that is why I am so curious, 
Papa. ” 

Her childish imitation of Jupiter was so perfect 
that Albert broke out into a hearty laugh. 

“I think Jupiter is right, Rose,” he said, finally. 

“Well." 

•Well what?” 

“I am waiting to hear what you were thinking 
about, Papa.” 

“Perhaps it was something to make my little girl 
happy.” 

“Oh, yes3 a new dress, cr a pony;” and she 
jumped off his knee and danced around the table. 
“Was that it, Papa?” 

“Perhaps; wait, and you will see." He had fin¬ 
ished his breakfast, and rising from the table took 
her hand and led the way to the garden. It was the 
bleak month of March, but the day was like April, 
balmy and warm. They had a long walk, and were 
returning to the house, when Albert spied the nurse 
girl, Sarah, sitting upon a rustic bench, engrossed 
in Madame Tissal’s wonderful work. 

This accounted for Miss Rose’s solitary appear¬ 
ance in the breakfast room. 

He silently approached the girl. She was so in¬ 
terested that she did not hear his step upon the 
walk. 

“Do you believe what you read in that took, 
Sarah?" he inquired quietly. 

The girl gave a slight scream and tried to hide 
the book. 


THE LETTER TO JOHN BARTON m 

“I did not hear you, sir,” she apologized. 

"My approach or my question?” he asked. 

“Your approach, sir. ” 

“Well, then, answer my question. Do you believe 
what you read in that book?” 

She reddened. 

"It has mostly always come true, sir.” 

"Has it?” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"Then I suppose if Madame Tissal was to declare 
through the medium of her book that you were to 
meet your death by hanging, you would go through 
life with that expectation?" 

"I hardly know, sir. Everything seems to come 
out just as the book says, sir.” 

He frowned slightly. "How old are you, Sarah?” 

"Past sixteen, sir.” 

"Old enough to have better sense. Now, take 
my advice. Throw that book away, or the first 
thing you know you will be crazy upon this subject. 
Remember; throw the book away.” 

He walked on. Sarah looked after him, and then 
put the book in her pocket. 

He felt vexed that Sarah should place such faith 
in the trashy volume. Vexed because she had said 
it had prophesied truthfully. 

He remembered what he had read the previous 
night. 

Rose was walking along very quietly. He had 
forgotten she was with him. As he drew near the 
house, he observed her. 


14 & 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“Run back to Sarah, Rose,” he said. 

“Papa must do some writing, and you would be 
in the way." 

The child obeyed him, and he went directly to 
his room. Paper, pens and ink were before him, 
upon the desk. He sat down and wrote the letter 
to John Barton: 

D-, Pa., March 14th, 18—. 

John Barton, Melbourne, Australia. Dear Sir: 
Doubtless you will be surprised at receiving a com¬ 
munication from me, an entire stranger, and will 
evidently feel greater astonishment when you peruse 
the following lines, and learn why I write you. 
But to come to the object of my epistle, allow me 
to state that nearly five years since I took passage 
on the steamer “Oceanic,” bound for San Francisco, 
and while on board formed the acquaintance of your 
niece, Mrs. Frances Norton. I was attracted by her 
beauty and vivacity, and finally, after some little 
difficulty, obtained her consent to a marriage. You 
have probably heard of the pestilence which de¬ 
stroyed every living being on board the infected 
ship; also of the wreck of the same. It has been 
published in all the papers, and from my dictation 
as one of the survivors; for be it understood, but 
three of us lived to tell the tale; your niece, my 
servant and myself. 

We were rescued by the steamer “Albatross,” and 
upon the same ship your niece and myself were 
united in matrimony. 

Previous to our marriage your niece informed me 
that there was a story in connection with her former 
life that she wished to tell me, before we were wed, 
as she was at that time at death’s door. I refused 
to listen to it and married her in ignorance of her 
former life. We have been fortunate in having two 
little ones born to us, both girls. One of them is 
now nearly four, the other' was born last night. I 


THE LETTER TO JOH&C BARTON 149 

have never asked my wife for any information con¬ 
cerning the secret of her life, thinking that some 
day she would make me her confidant. She has 
not, however, alluded to it in any way, until last 
night, as I stood by her bedside, she being asleep, 
she uttered the words as if dreaming: ‘My boy—- 
my first born. Where are you nbw?’ The idea 
flashed through my mind at that moment that this 
had something to do with her secret; that she had 
a son living somewhere in the wide world, and her 
mother’s heart yearned for him. I determined that 
instant to find that son, if possible, and restore him 
to his mother’s heart; but I did not know how to 
begin. Suddenly I thought of you. Captain Snow, 
of the “Oceanic,” had told me of the relationship 
you bore her, and so the idea occurred to me that 
you might render me some assistance by giving me 
a few facts in the case. So I write you. If you 
will kindly reveal to me the cause of the separation 
of son and mother, and the boy’s whereabouts when 
last heard from, I will have something to work upon, 
and may yet enjoy the pleasure of seeing mother 
and son reunited, and him a happy member of my 
family. Hoping to receive an early reply, I remain 

Yours resp’y, 

Albert Andrews. 

P. S.—I spoke to my wife this a. m., and found, 
to my surprise, that she has not written you at all 
since our marriage. She claims to have some good 
reason for not doing so, and as I trust her implic¬ 
itly, I take it for granted she has. Probably you 
may have some idea why she has neglected you. 
Remember: I am not trying to pry into my wife’s 
secrets. I am simply working for her happiness. 

A. A. 

He sealed the letter, stamped it with a foreign 
stamp, and then, descending the stairs, was soon on 

his way to the post-office, where he mailed it. 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


*5° 


CHAPTER XX 

A VACANT STARE 

“Excuse me, I did not observe you, sir.” 

“It does not matter,”and the man hurried by. 

Albert was the first speaker. He had just mailed 
the letter to John Barton, and was leaving the office, 
when a stranger, entering, jostled him. Through 
natural politeness Albert apologized. The stranger 
approached the window. 

“Mail for Isaac Warden," he demanded. 

“None for that name, sir,” answered the post¬ 
master. 

With a gesture of disappointment, the stranger 
turned to leave. Our hero stood upon the walk 
outside, absently looking up the street. A child 
was playing with a large dog in the road. He was 
watching the little one. 

The stranger passed him, and then turned and 
looked him in the face. He returned. 

“Pardon me, sir; but your face has a familiar ap¬ 
pearance. I consider we are already acquainted, for 
if I mistake not we had a slight encounter but a 
few moments ago. Allow me to take advantage of 
that novel introduction to inquire if I have ever 
met you before." 

Albert took his eyes from the playing child and 
looked at the man who accosted him. 

He saw an elderly gentleman, probably over three 
score, for his hair and beard were whitened by the 


*A STzA%E 151 

frosts of time. A stern face, not particularly pre¬ 
possessing, but now warmed by an expression of in¬ 
terest; a face entirely unfamiliar. He had never 
seen it before. 

“No, I think not,” he replied to the stranger’s 
interrogation. “At least, I do not remember ever 
having met you before.” 

“It is strange,” muttered the elderly man. “Will 
you kindly give me your name?” 

“Certainly, if you wish it—Albert Andrews.” 

The other seemed to consider a moment. 

“I must be mistaken, ” he answered. “The name 
is unfamiliar. Pardon me,” and he hastened away. 

Albert looked after him with a puzzled expression 
upon his face. The dog had gone up the street 
and the child followed it; so he started on his way 
home. The day was delightful, the air was just 
cool enough to be pleasant, and in fact Albert 
found, upon reaching the top of a hill, which he 
was obliged to climb, in order to reach his house, 
that the exertion had brought a few beads of per¬ 
spiration to his brow. He stopped at the top of the 
hill to wipe his forehead, and gazed about him. 

The sight was beautiful. On either side stretched 
out the range of mountains that intersect the State 
of Pennsylvania, the Alleghanies, their towering 
peaks showing boldly against the evening sky. The 
trees, devoid of foliage, standing like countless 
spectres upon the side. Far away at his feet ran 
the waters, of the beautiful Juniata, “The Blue Juni¬ 
ata,” one of the most picturesque streams in the 


*5* 


e AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


State. He stood and watched the landscape, and a 
great feeling of oeace filled his heart as he gazed. 

A heavy footstep behind him caused him to turn. 
The foreman of one of his mines was approaching 
him. 

"Well, Joe,” he asked, as he saw the man wished 
to speak to him 

"I heard you was at the post-office, sir, and so I 
followed you,” and the man removed his hat. 

"You wished to see me, Joe?” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"Well.” 

"A stranger called ac the mine this mornin', sir. 
He was askin’ questions about the ownership. I 
think he wanted to buy.” 

"Well, what of it, Joe?” 

"Only this, sir: If you sell the mine, would I 
remain with it, or would you want to use me some¬ 
where else, sir?” 

"Would you rather remain in my employ, Joe?” 

"That I would, sir, and so I thought I had best 
speak to you, sir.” 

Albert smiled. 

"I have not seen this would-be purchaser yet, Joe, 
and do not think I would sell. At any rate, if I do, 
I will use you elsewhere. 

"Thank you, sir.” 

"Is that all, Joe?” 

The fellow shifted uneasily. 

"Well, not exactly, Mr. Andrews. I am glad you 
could retain me in your employ; but there is 


e/f VACANT STARE 


J 53 


something else, sir, that I hardly like to tell you— 
in fact, I don’t know as it is right for me to do it.” 

“Concerning the mine, Joe?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

A quick glance into the man’s shifting eyes, then 
a stern voice: 

I am your employer, Joe. I have always en¬ 
deavored to act rightly toward you. I can see by 
your eyes that there is something wrong. It is your 
duty to tell me.” 

The man flushed. 

“I knows it, sir,” he muttered. “But if I tells 
you, then all the boys will be down on me. I know 
you are a good man, sir, and it ain’t right that you 
should be kept in the dark, but I don’t like to act 
crooked with the boys.” 

“Who puts bread and butter into the mouths of 
yourself and little ones, Joe?” 

“You do, sir.” 

“Then your first duty is to me. I shall not con¬ 
sider you my friend if you keep anything from me 
that I should know. 

"I’ll tell you, sir, but don’t let the boys know it. 
You remember about two weeks ago two men ap¬ 
plied for work. You hired ’em, although I told you 
we did not need any more. Before these fellows 
come everything was as nice as pie; the men were 
satisfied, and contented with their pay. Since the 
new men have been among them things are not so 
pleasant. They have put some idea into the minds 
of the men that they are not getting enough pay, 


cAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


*b4 

They tell them that the pit men in Ohio get a dol¬ 
lar more a car for their coal, and the work is not so 
hard. The men are dissatisfied and have made up 
their minds to strike, and if you don’t agree to 
raise them a dollar they will take possession of the 
mine, and it will cause you trouble, sir. Now, I 
have told you. I hopes you will be able to fix it.” 

“When do they propose to strike, Joe?" This 
very quietly. 

“After pay-day.” 

“Thank you, Joe. I think I can arrange matters." 

“What will you do, sir?” 

“Nothing that will affect you, Joe. You have 
proven your faithfulness. I shall not forget. If 
anything happens in the meantime let me know." 

“I will, sir.” 

The man touched his hat and walked away. Al¬ 
bert continued homeward, a grim smile of determ¬ 
ination upon his face. # 

A man not to be trifled with was Albert Andrews. 

He had concluded what was the best thing to be 
done under the circumstances. He felt no fear. 
He went directly to his study, or office, whichever 
it might be termed, upon reaching home. He wrote 
several letters, and then went to his room to change 
his clothing. 

Jupiter was there, dozing in an easy chair. 

“Jupiter. ” 

“Yes, sah,” arousing himself. 

“On my desk in the office, you will find several 
letters. Mail them, and then return at once.” 


*55 


^ VzACtAm STA%E 

“Yes, sah,” going toward the door. 

“Oh, Jupiter.” 

"Yes, sah”, halting with his hand on the knob. 

“Has Doctor Gross been here to-day?” 

“Yes, sah. He only left an hour ago.” 

Did you hear him say anything in reference to 
your mistress’ condition?” 

“Not much, sah. As I let him out de do,’ he 
said somefin’ about being worried, or somefin’ like 
it.” 

“Who worried?” 

“I don’t know, sah. He were talkin’ to himself.” 

“All right. Go now, and mail the letters." 

Jupiter bowed and left the room. The master 
made his toilet and descended to his wife’s cham¬ 
ber. 

It was darkened, the shutters being drawn to. 

He could not discern objects at first. 

“Albert,” called his wife from the bed. 

"Yes, Frances; I can scarcely see, it is so dark 
here after coming in from the light.” 

“The doctor thought it best to close the blinds, 
so I could sleep. You can open them now, dear, I 
cannot compose myself.” 

“Not if you wish them closed, Frances. The doc¬ 
tor probably knows best. ” 

“No. Open them. I wish to see your face dis¬ 
tinctly.” 

He pushed open the shutters. “Come, sit beside 
me,” she said. “Baby is sleeping and the nurse has 
gone out for a while.” 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


156 

He drew a chair to her bedside. 

“I have been thinking, Albert, since you left me 
this morning.” 

‘‘Yes. Of what?” 

‘‘Many things; principally of the four years of 
happiness we have passed. We have been happy, 
Albert.” 

‘‘Very happy, Frances." 

‘‘I have been wondering to myself if we shall al¬ 
ways be so happy. I have not been able to sleep 
at all to-day, from thinking." 

"You must not think too much, dear, it is bad for 
you in your weak condition." 

"Is it, Albert?" 

"Without doubt. You know people become insane 
from thinking too much.” 

To his surprise she burst into a torrent of tears, 
sobbing wildly, almost hysterically. He strove to 
pacify her, wondering in his heart what there had 
been in his words to thus startle her. 

"Frances! Frances! My darling," he cried. "You 
must not act like this.” 

She became calmer. 

"What caused your grief?" he anxiously inquired. 

"I don’t know, Albert; I could not help it. It 
seemed as if my heart was too full, and would have 
burst if I had not given vent to my feelings. I 
feel so melancholy to-day." 

He grew alarmed. 

"Has anything occurred to cause that feeling?" 
he asked. 


e/f Vid CAN'T STARE 157 

She remained silent, merely sobbing gently. 
Suddenly she took his hand. 

“You are not angry with me, Albert. 

He looked at her in surprise. 

“Angry? Why no. Why should I be?” She had 
asked the same question in the morning. She 
sighed deeply. 

“I don’t know,” she answered. 

“Take me in your arms, Albert. Press me to your 
heart. Say you do love me as much as ever,” this 
very eagerly. 

He clasped her to his bosom, and tenderly pressed 
a kiss upon her brow. 

“You are weak and filled with foolish fancies, 
Frances. There. I love you more than ever. Are 
you satisfied now?” 

She made no answer; she had ceased to sob. He 
gently laid her back upon the pillows. She made 
no sign that she was conscious of what he was do¬ 
ing. He looked into her face, and a thrill of horror 
ran through him. 

She was staring at the wall opposite — a , blank , vacant 
stare , in which there was no reason. 

“Frances, my darling!” he cried. 

Still that emotionless expression. 

"Are you ill?” He was growing alarmed. 

The white lips opened. The sweet voice whis¬ 
pered. He bowed his head and caught the words: 

“Forgive me, Albert; I loved you so.” 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


15 S 


CHAPTER XXI 

THE STRIKE 

The frightful truth flashed upon his mind upon 
hearing his wife’s words. 

She knew not what she was saying. Pain and 
suffering had robbed her of her reason. 

He rang the bell. The nurse entered hastily. 
Hurriedly he explained that his wife was sick, had 
taken a dangerous turn, and dispatched her for a 
servant to go for Dr. Gross. He returned to the 
bed. She was idly trifling with the fringe upon 
the white coverlid, no whiter than her own face. 
She was a child again, was talking aimlessly about 
green fields and flowers, and was calling upon some 
childhood companion. 

"Wait for me, Willie," she cried. "I will come 
as soon as I gather this bright daisy." 

Then on, rambling in her uncertain way, among 
the scenes of her girlish life. 

With head bowed in grief, he sat. 

"Will the doctor never come,” he repeated to him¬ 
self, a hundred times over. At last a hurried 
footstep in the hall, and the eccentric, but whole- 
souled doctor burst into the room. 

"What’s the matter?" he demanded, as he threw 
his hat and cane to one side. 

The young husband merely waved his hand to¬ 
ward the bed. 

Down beside the afflicted one sat the doctor, 


THE STRIKE 159 

watch in hand. He noted the pulse, a stolid look 
upon his face. 

“Hum,” he grunted. “Burning up with fever. 
What have you been doing to her?” turning upon 
Albert. 

“Nothing, Doctor. I called in upon my return 
from town, and found her strangely melancholy; 
she burst into hysterical tears, without apparent 
reason, and went off into the state in which you 
see her. I cannot explain it, Doctor.” 

The physician remained silent. 

“Is the change dangerous, Doctor?” 

“For a woman in her condition all changes are 
dangerous. Something has excited her. Some¬ 
thing has caused her worriment. Can you remem¬ 
ber having said or done anything to produce such a 
condition ?” 

The young man related the fact of the letter. 

“Do you think that would cause it?” he con¬ 
cluded. 

“Not knowing her reasons for not writing, I can¬ 
not say. Something has caused it, that is certain. 
What, I can’t say.” 

“But she will recover, Doctor?” 

“I am not supernatural. We must hope for the 
best.” 

He drew his pocketbook from his vest and wrote 
a prescription. 

“Have this filled at once,” he growled. “Take it 
to Islop’s. Don’t patronize that young puppy, 
Brown; he is too egotistical. Guess that new soda 


e AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


160 

water fountain has turned his brain. Will call in 
the morning.” 

So saying, he buttoned up his coat, pulled on his 
gloves and left the room. The banging of the front 
door a moment later announced that he had also 
left the house. A servant was dispatched for the 
medicine, and when it arrived Albert administered 
it with his own hands. All the long night he sat 
by the side of the wife he loved better than his 
life, refusing to retire, although the nurse protested 
that he would make himself seriously ill if he did 
not procure his proper rest. He would not hear the 
good woman’s words. 

“No,” he said emphatically. “I will remain by 
her side until the doctor comes again.” 

At an early hour the patient fell into a quiet sleep, 
and was in that condition when the doctor came. 

“Ha,” he grunted, when he saw her sleeping. 

She’s all right; only a little delirium caused by 
fever. She’ll wake up in her proper senses.” 

"Are you sure, Doctor?” 

“Sure? of course I am. Don’t suppose I said that 
in a joke, did you?" 

No. Only I thought perhaps you overrated the 
action of your medicine.” 

“I don’t do those things, young man. Did she get 
her medicine promptly?” to the nurse. 

“Mr. Andrews administered it, Doctor,” the 
woman replied. 

The doctor turned the force of his spectacles upon 
the husband. 




“AS AN AMERICAN CITIZEN, I AM WILLING TO GRANT 
YOU ARE RIGHT.”—Page 166 . 









THE STRIKE 161 

"Do you mean to say you have been up all night?” 
he grunted. 

"Yes, Doctor. I felt anxious,” replied Albert, 
apologetically. 

You’re a fool,” said that gentleman bluntly. 

Go to bed—no back talk, or I won’t carry on this 
case. If you can’t trust me sufficiently, without 
sticking by your wife’s bedside and losing your 
rest, I’ll give it up.” 

"But, Doctor—” 

Don’t ‘but Doctor’ me; go to bed and sleep. 
I give you my word, your wife will come out all 
right.” 

Without another word the young husband left the 
room. He attempted to kiss the lips of his wife 
before doing so, but Doctor Gross forbade it. 

"You’ll wake her up,” he growled, "and probably 
spoil all. Keep an account of the number of slob¬ 
bers you miss, and make it up when she recovers.” 

So Albert left the apartment. 

"Only way to talk to these loving husbands,” re¬ 
marked the doctor to the nurse. “I know how to 
handle ’em.” 

The nurse agreed with him, and they fell to dis¬ 
cussing other cases, where they had officiated 
jointly. 

The husband went to his sleeping apartment, feel¬ 
ing heavy at heart, only partially assured by the 
doctor’s words. 

His mind was filled with diverse thoughts as he 

An Unconscious Crime // 


102 


e AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


tossed upon his bed; thoughts that nearly drove 
him frantic. Finally, he fell into a deep sleep, 
solely from sheer exhaustion, and slept until the 
chiming of the marble clock upon the mantel an¬ 
nounced the day nearly spent. It was five o’clock. 

He rang the bell for Jupiter, and that worthy 
made his appearance with a smiling face. 

“My wife,” demanded the master. “Is she better?” 

“Right as a trivet, sah,” answered the man. 

“Thank God!" 

“She’s eatin’ some briled chicken, sah, and she’s 
smilin’ all over her face and talkin’ to de new 
baby. ” 

“I must go to her.” 

“No, sah. De doctor says you was not to go to 
her room, until he came agin.” 

“The doctor be hanged. What right has he to 
forbid a husband from going to the bedside of his 
sick wife, I’d like to know.” 

“Don’t know nuffin ’bout dat, sah. All I knows 
is dat de doctor said to me as he was leavin’ : 
‘Jup; your misis is mighty sick.’ ‘Yes, sah,’ says 
I.’ ‘She must be kept quiet,’ says he. ‘Yes, sah,’ 
says I.’ 'Mister A 1 must not ’sturb her,’ says he. 
‘No, sah,’ says I. ‘See dat he don’t go into de 
room until I comes back,’ says he. ‘No, sah,’ says 
I.’ ‘Ef he kicks, tie him,’ says he. ‘Yes, sah,’ 
says I; an’ so, Mister Al, as much as I should 
hate to do sich a ting, ef you desists on going 
into dat room I shall be ’bliged to tie you wid 
a rope.” 


THE STRIKE 


163 

Do you mean to say the doctor ordered you to 
tie me?” cried Albert, aghast. 

Dat’s what he say, sah. He give me a dollah, 
sah, to keep me in ’membrance of my promise.” 

“Jupiter, you could not tie me." 

“I’d try, sah." 

The solemn earnestness of the man’s face was too 
much for Albert; so he sat down in the easy chair 
and roared with laughter. He understood the doc¬ 
tor’s way, and knew that Jupiter would surely fol¬ 
low his orders. So, after a hearty laugh, he said: 

All right, Jup; I’ll obey the doctor’s orders." 

“Will you, Mister Al?" 

“Why yes. I know he would not desire my ab¬ 
sence from my wife’s room if it were not for the 
best. 11 

Jupiter heaved a sigh of relief and produced from 
under his coat a coil of rope. 

“I wont need dis, den, Mister Al; an’ I’m glad of 
it. I knows you’ll keep your word, so I’ll leave de 
rope yeah." 

The sight of the rope heavy enough to have tied 
an ox aroused the husband’s laughter again, and he 
roared again with merriment, Jupiter joining him at 
last. He soon finished dressing, and went down 
stairs into the dining room. He ate a hearty meal, 
and remembering his promise to Jupiter, whom he 
could perceive watching him from the hall, went out 
into the garden, for a stroll and a smoke. 

He walked out of the garden, out upon the hill. 
Night was falling. All nature seemed at rest. He 


164 c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

felt strangely calm. He even forgot for the time 
that he had sat the live-long night before beside 
the bed of a wife, wondering if she would ever greet 
him again, with the light of reason in her tender 
eyes. 

“Mr. Andrews.” 

A hoarse, excited voice behind him. He turned. 
It was Joe, the foreman. 

“What is it, Joe?” 

The man was laboring under great excitement. 
His hat was pushed back upon his head. He was 
breathless as if from violent exercise. “It has come, 
sir,” he gasped. “The boys has come out of the 
mine, and say they will not allow any one else to go 
down the shaft, unless you agree to raise the price. 
They have all been drinking, and are dangerous.” 

A grim smile compressed Albert’s lips. 

“Ha! They say that, do they?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I think it would have been better for them to 
have spoken to me in the right way first. Now they 
have thrown themselves out of work, for I will not 
grant their desire, nor allow them to work again.” 

“What will you do, sir?” anxiously. 

“Shut up the mine, before I will allow myself to 
be dictated to by those in my employ. Come, Joe.” 

“Where are you going, sir?” 

“To the mine. I will speak to these fools. 
There may be some among them not entirely de¬ 
void of common sense.” He had started in the di¬ 
rection of the mine. 


LAHO\ <AND CAPITAL 165 

“It is dangerous, sir, to-night," cried the fore- 
man, reaching his side. 

I have faced danger often, Joe—wild beasts, sav¬ 
ages, human wild beasts. I do not fear these men. 
They have eaten my bread; they will not harm me.” 

And he strode rapidly in the direction of the coal 
mine, one of many that he controlled. And the 
steely glitter in his eyes and the compressed lips, 
showed that he was not to be trifled with. 


CHAPTER XXII 

LABOR AND CAPITAL 

Not much was said by either master or man until 
they reached the mine. Around the engine house, 
whose noisy machinery was now quiet, stood the 
men, in groups; some with the small lamps used by 
them, while at their work far down into the bow¬ 
els of the earth, alight; some holding flaring torch¬ 
es of hard pine, whose yellowish glare reflected 
upon their blackened faces, blackened in their 
efforts to wrest King Coal from his fastnesses in the 
earth’s centre, gave them the appearance of demons. 

There were fully two hundred of these men, and 
each group, gathered around the leader, were lis¬ 
tening to what he said about their determination. 
This strike was a foolish thing on the part of these 
men. Most strikes are. Albert Andrews was a 
kind, but strict, employer. He really paid better 
wages than any other mine owner for miles around, 
and the men knew this, but they had allowed them- 



i66 


e AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


selves to listen to strangers, and had become dis¬ 
satisfied. Instead of asking for an increase they 
had struck, in the manner described. 

Our hero, followed by the foreman, advanced to¬ 
ward the centre of the noisiest group. They were 
being harangued by one of the fellows who had 
caused the dissatisfaction. They did not observe 
him until he was in their midst. Then the speaker 
suddenly became quiet, and Albert took his stand 
upon a small coal car, and looked down upon them. 

“What is the trouble now,” he demanded in his 
clear, ringing tone. 

Not one answered for some time. At last one, a 
burly miner, noted for his quarrelsome disposition, 
stepped forward, and spoke, and by the light of a 
flaring torch, Albert could see he had been drinking. 

“The trouble is this, Mr. Andrews. We have 
come to the conclusion that all men are equal. Our 
forefathers shed their blood in the Revolution to 
prove that, and we don’t see any reason why we 
should forget it, even if it was a long time ago.” 

“Good! good!” roared the miners. Albert waited 
until they had become quieted, and then said 
calmly: 

“As an American citizen, I am willing to grant 
you are right; all men are equal in freedom.” 

“Well, then, why don’t you pay us the same as 
they pay in Ohio.” 

“For the reason that the work is different. There 
they have not the improved machinery that I have 
expended large sums for, to make your labor lighter. 


LABOR zAND CAPITAL 


167 

Here you can get out nearly double the amount of 
coal that they can there, and really get better paid 
than they do.” 

I d like to see it, roared the burly fellow. 

They git a dollar more than we do. Is that paying 
us better?” 

‘‘Listen. Suppose they get out one car a day, 
and get two dollars and a half for doing it, and you 
get out two cars a day and receive one dollar and a 
half a car. Which amounts to the most?” 

“Why, two cars, of course; but we have twice as 
much work to do to git out two cars.” 

“No. They could get out just as much as you 
do, if they had the same hoisting machinery; but 
they have not. They are obliged to bring their 
coal to the surface by the means of the old-fashioned 
machinery, and it takes them twice as long. If 
you only received one dollar and a half a car and 
could get out but one car per day, the same as they 
do in Ohio, then you would have some justifiable 
cause for complaint. As it is, you have none, for 
you make more than they do.” 

“We don’t see it that way,” growled the man. 
“A car’s a car—no matter how you put it, and if 
them fellows in Ohio are worth a dollar more than 
we git, then we’re worth it, too.” 

If you thought that, why did you not come to 
me as men, and tell me what you wanted; ask me 
for an increase, instead of stopping my machinery, 
thereby causing me delay and expense, and stop¬ 
ping work?” 


i68 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“That’s what we were going to do after we had 
struck,” replied the man. 

“We didn’t think you would give it," cried an¬ 
other. 

“We struck to be sure of it,” cried a third. 

“Have I ever refused you anything within rea¬ 
son?” 

“Don’t know as you have." 

“Are not your homes pleasant and comfortable?” 

“Yes, but we pays rent for ’em.” 

“Wouldn’t you be obliged to pay rent to some 
one else if not to me?” 

“I s’pose so.” 

“Can you rent of anyone else cheaper?’* 

“Never tried.” 

“You have always received your pay promptly, 
have you not?” 

“Yes; what we got.” 

“You get as much as you earn.” 

“I don’t think so,” yelled one of the dissatisfied. 

“Then why have you not applied to some one else 
for work, where you could have received more?” 

“Our families are here, and we can’t break up 
our homes.” 

“Do you not think that your present action has 
more of a tendency to break up your homes than 
anything else could have done?” 

“Don’t know. We must look out for ourselves. 
We know if we strike you will have to give in, and 
pay us what we ask. The miners in Ohio did it, 
and they got it,” 


LABO% zANT) CAPITAL 169 

Oh, they did? and how long were they idle be¬ 
fore they were successful? For months in the 
meantime, their families, wives, and little children 
suffered for the actual necessities of life. Many of 
them actually starved to death. What did they gain by 
the strike? Nothing. The owners could well afford to 
allow them to remain idle, for they were not suffering 
for food, and could supply all demands for coal from 
the supply they already had on hand. The miners 
lay idle for a long time. Finally, when the owners 
required their services again, they put them to 
work, and increased their pay. They could then afford 
it, for the price of the product had increased; and 
then the foolish men cried aloud that they had been 
successful, not considering the want and privation 
they had been obliged to undergo; not considering 
the long time they would be obliged to work in or¬ 
der that they could make up what they had lost. 
Just look at it. They were earning one dollar and 
a half a day, before the strike, and they received 
one dollar more after they went to work again; but 
they lost many months’ work, and were really no 
better off until a year had passed. They had suf¬ 
fered in the meantime, debts had been contracted, 
doctors had to be paid, money had been foolishly 
expended in meetings, and many men became drunk¬ 
ards through trying to drown their sorrows in the 
cursed glass. No, boys. The men in Ohio were no 
better off, even after they gained the day—not so 
well off in fact, for they had lost all sympathy from 
their employers, who would not hesitate to throw 


170 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


them out of employment entirely, upon the slight¬ 
est provocation.” 

The crowd remained silent for some time. Al¬ 
bert’s words had evidently improved some of them. 
At last the ring-leader spoke up again. 

“All this chaff amounts to nothin’. You are the 
boss; you has the capital. We are the men; we 
has the labor. It’s right that we should have at least 
an equal share of the profits, for we give our life for 
our work. You live in a big house; you has serv¬ 
ants to wait on you, wine to drink, nice beds to lay 
in. We work hard, has water to drink, bread to 
eat. We can’t git much more. Our houses are 
little; our wives and children wear calico. It ain’t 
right. We only ask our share.” 

Albert bit his lips. 

‘‘Has it ever occurred to you that my capital, in¬ 
vested in that which gives you that bread you 
speak of, was contributed by myself alone? You 
gave no part of it. I assume all risk, you receive 
your pay, whether I win or lose. If I had not pro¬ 
vided a place for you to work, you would have no 
work to do. Capital and labor should work togeth¬ 
er, hand in hand; but is it fair and just that capital 
should give labor an equal share in all profits, and 
also assume all risks? I do not think so.” 

“Well, what are you going to do?” cried the lead¬ 
er. “We have made up our minds; we won’t work 
no more at the present pay; we won’t go down 
into the pit, unless we git as much as they pay in 


LABO% .AND CATITtAL 171 

Ohio, and what is more, we’ll take good care no one 
else takes our places.” 

“Then I am to understand you will try and force 
me to pay you more?” 

“Not exactly that; only we won’t work ’til we 
gits it.” 

“It means the same thing. You have come to the 
conclusion that this is the proper way to try and 
better your condition.” 

“Certainly. ” 

“You think it better to strike than to come like 
men and ask for what you want?” 

“Ain’t that the same as askin?’” 

“No; there is a decided difference. You want 
my answer. You shall have it. I will never increase 
your pay one cent , and more: from this moment you 
can consider yourselves discharged from my em¬ 
ploy. If you had come to me and asked me for an 
increase, I might have considered your claim; but 
when you try to force me you have shown but little 
knowledge of my character. I will never accede to 
your demands. I can live without this mine; with¬ 
out your services. I have capital. You will find it 
hard to exist upon with you possess, simply labor, 
for although it is worth something, it can never be 
put upon an equality with the power of gold.” 

A sullen roar sounded through the crowd. They 
had not expected this. 

“You won’t give us what we ask?” 

“No.” ! 

“You can’t work the mine without us.” 


UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


JJ2 

“Then the mine will be closed. But do not 
reckon without your host. The mine will be 
worked. There are plenty of men who will be glad 
to take what you willfully cast aside.” 

“Yes; and I’ll help to find them,” cried one famil¬ 
iar voice behind the car. 

The next moment a man clambered up into the 
car beside our hero. It was the elderly stranger he 
had met at the post-office. 

“I heard what you said,” he whispered. “You are 
right. Don’t give in to these fellows. I can easily 
obtain all the men you need.” 

This was said in a low tone before Albert had re¬ 
covered from his astonishment at his sudden appear¬ 
ance. The crowd had begun to break out into hard 
and threatening talk. 

“We won’t let ’em work,” shouted the burly 
miner. “We won’t allow any one to go down that 
shaft." 

“We will see about that,” replied Albert, in a 
quiet tone; and with a quick motion he drew from 
his hip pocket a beautifully mounted revolver. He 
held it up in the flaming light. “Do you see that, 
men,” he cried. “Well, be it understood, once for 
all, that I own this mine, not you, and / propose to 
run it to suit myself. / shall be the first to prove 
to you that you shall not control the actions of any 
one. I am going down that shaft, and if there are any 
among you willing to return to your work at the old 
figure, follow me. I am going to start the engine of 
the shaft, and you attempt to stop meat your peril*" 


LABOR <AND CAPITAL 


i7 3 

He descended from the car, followed by the stranger. 
As he struck the ground the burly fellow aimed a 
blow at his head with an iron coupling-pin that 
would have ended his life if it had struck him. In 
an instant all was confusion. A number of the 
strikers decided to return to work; they turned up¬ 
on the others and forced them back. Albert, with 
encouraging cries, made his waj through the midst 
of the struggling, fighting men, and soon stood in 
the engine house. The foreman, who had stuck 
closely to his side, understood the working of the 
engine and soon the regular throb of the mighty 
machinery sounded out upon the night air. This 
enraged the dissatisfied ones still more; their anger 
being raised to a boiling pitch by seeing some of 
their comrades desert them. They grew reckless, 
even demoniac, and began throwing huge lumps of 
coal in at the open door and windows of the engine 
house. 

“Close the door!” shouted Albert. The men in¬ 
side started to carry out his orders; but before they 
could do so a piece of coal struck the stranger upon 
the head, and he fell, without a groan, upon the 
floor. The sight of this aroused our hero to the 
greatest pitch of anger. Calling upon the men to 
follow him, he sprang out into the midst of the fight. 
Revolver in hand, he led the fray, not firing a shot, 
for he did not wish to rob any of them of life; but 
using its breech with deadly effect. 

The battle was long and terrible; many were the 
heads split open, and the bodies bruised and man- 


174 


e/flV UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


gled; but when the sun rose upon the scene of the 
fray, the disturbers of the peace had been driven 
from the field, and those who were satisfied with 
their lot went down into the mine, and upon the 
first car rode Albert Andrews. He had kept his 
word. 

The old gentleman was carried to Albert’s resi¬ 
dence. Doctor Gross looked doubtful when he 
viewed the wound. 

"Very bad,” he growled. "Keep him in the house 
some time; but by careful nursing, guess he’ll pull 
through." 


CHAPTER XXIII 

THE STRANGER’S STORY 

Albert had gone directly to his wife’s room upon 
returning from the mine. He had remained there 
until a force of men had arrived, armed and pre¬ 
pared to shield the mines from harm. The ones 
who had caused the trouble had been put under ar¬ 
rest, and there seemed to be no further cause for 
alarm. 

On his way home our hero called in at the cot¬ 
tages of some of those who had struck. He told the 
wives of their husbands’ actions; but assured them 
that they should not want, promising them that he 
would see that they received food and raiment until 
their foolish husbands found something else to do. 

"I am willing to help you,” he said. "But I can 
no longer keep them in my employ." 



THE STRANGER'S STORY 


i75 


He found his wife much improved, and went to 
his much needed rest, feeling satisfied in mind. 

The weeks rolled by. The ring leaders of the 
trouble had been tried and found guilty of attempt 
to incite riot, and were sentenced to terms of impris¬ 
onment. Albert offered to pay a fine, if the judge 
would accept it, to keep the men out of prison; but 
his honor refused. 

“It will teach them a lesson,” he said. “The stay 
in prison will not hurt them.” And so to prison 
they went. 

Albert was entering the house, upon his return 
from the trial, when he heard his name called. Look¬ 
ing up, he saw it was his guest, who had called 
him from the window of his room. 

The old gentleman had passed through a danger¬ 
ous sickness. The skull had been fractured, and 
Dr. Gross had been fearful at one time of death 
taking place; but the old man possessed a power¬ 
ful constitution, and gradually grew stronger. He 
was now almost entirely recovered; but kept his 
room yet, through the doctor’s orders. 

“Andrews,” he called through the window. 

“Ah, good morning,” answered our hero. 

“Come up; I want to speak with you.” 

"Very well; in a few moments.” 

He entered the house. Frances, who had recov¬ 
ered almost entirely by this time, was walking along 
the hall, holding little Rose by the hand, while the 
nurse, carrying the late arrival, was following her. 

“Here comes Papa,” and the little one, leaving 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


17 6 

her mother, ran to her father’s side. He raised het 
in his arms and kissed her. 

“I hope you feel stronger to-day, Frances,” he 
said, drawing near his wife. 

I am improving daily,” she answered. ”1 will 
soon be strong enough to go out.” 

He kissed her. 

“I am glad to hear that,” he murmured. “I have 
felt very anxious during your sickness. I have 
missed you sorely.” 

“What have you done with the poor men?” she in¬ 
quired. 

“The judge sentenced them to a term of impris 
onment. I tried to beg off for some of them, but 
his honor thought it best to teach them a lesson.” 

I am so sorry. I know it was wrong for them to 
cause so much trouble, but they were influenced by 
others. What will become of their wives and chil¬ 
dren?” 

"I have provided for them; they shall not want." 

That is so much like you, dear. Your heart is 
so tender. I must visit them when I am strong 
enough. ” 

Do so. They would appreciate it.” 

He left her standing in the hall, and went to 
the wounded man. 

Got home at last, eh?” was the greeting he re- 
ceived. “I have been fuming and fretting for a 
week to see you. In fact, ever since I have been 
able to be out of bed. I told that old fogy, Gross, 



THE STRANGER’S STORY 177 

that I had business with you; but he positively 
forbade my seeing any one." 

Dr. Gross is peculiar; his ideas are strange, but 
they usually prove correct.” 

That’s all right; but when a man is sheltered 
under another man’s roof for nearly two months, it 
is proper that he should be allowed to at least thank 
him. Here I have been all this time, and I dare 
say you do not even know my name.” 

Albert smiled. 

"You are mistaken, sir. True, I have not had 
the pleasure of conversing with you; but I learned 
your name from the fact that the landlord of the 
hotel where you were stopping brought your mail 
as soon as he learned of your whereabouts, and from 
him I learned your name.” 

”Ah! So there is some mail for me?” 

Quite considerable, sir. Dr. Gross advised me 
to keep it from you, however, until you were bet¬ 
ter. He claims that excitement of any kind is not 
good for you. ” 

"Then I am to infer from that that I will not be 
allowed to read my own letters until he grants per¬ 
mission ?” 

"Those are his orders, sir.” 

"He assumes a great deal of authority,” fumed the 
invalid. 

"He is your physician, Mr. Warden; and as he 
has brought you through, I should advise you to 
abide by his orders. ” 

An Unconscious Crime 12 


i 7 8 UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

"Well, I suppose I must,” growled the other; 
"but he told me this morning that I could not talk, 
and so I called to you as you passed my window. I 
suppose you are in a state of wonderment regarding 
my presence here." 

"Not here; no. I had you brought here. I was 
surprised at your sudden appearance at the mine 
the night of the strike." 

"I’ll explain that; but, in order to do so, I must 
first inform you as to the object of my visit to your 
delightful town. My name is Isaac Warden, as 
you know; for many years I have been engaged in 
mercantile business and have been what most men 
would term very successful. I have made a great 
deal of money and have been wise in my genera¬ 
tion; I have saved it, which is more to the point. 

I retired several years ago, a sufficiency of money 
and a family trouble causing me to long for rest. 
But show me the man who has passed all the earlier 
portion of his life in the stirring element of trade, 
who can throw it aside like an old glove, and be 
content to rest, and spend his money. I soon grew 
tired of rest, and began to look about me for some¬ 
thing to invest a portion of my capital in—some¬ 
thing that would ^ afford a certain amount of excite¬ 
ment, and would bring ample return for the invest¬ 
ment. Through the advice of several friends, I at 
last hit upon the coal and iron mining trade as a 
good speculation. I investigated the business and 
finally came to the conclusion that I would buy 
stock in some responsible company. But there 



fHE STRANGER'S STORY 173 

Came a difficulty. I could not make up my mind in 
which company to invest. I then determined to 
take a trip up in this country, where there is such 
a wealth of mineral product. Here I found several 
individual owners, yourself among the rest. 

“I made inquiry regarding the different mines, and 
found that the one owned by yourself was the best 
paying one. At that time I had never met you. 
Accident brought us together later on. I wandered 
about the vicinity of the mines all one day; in fact 
night overtook me before I started to return to my 
hotel. Passing near your property I heard the 
sound of some one talking, and drawing nearer 
found it to be yourself. I heard all you said, and 
agreed with you thoroughly. So that is how I hap¬ 
pened to be present that night, and become more 
intimately acquainted with the coal trade—at least 
in the fall of the article upon my head,” with a 
grimace. 

Albert smiled. "I regret that you received such 
an unfavorable impression upon your visit to my 
mine. ” 

Yes—rather a decided impression as well; but 
still, that is over, and now to business. I think 1 
will get well, and as I came down here to invest in 
a coal mine, what will you take for yours?” 

‘Well, Mr. Warden, I don’t know as I can make 
you an answer to-day. You see, I have not thought 
of disposing of it.” 

“Don’t you think that after the trouble you have 
had and the expression of your ideas that night, 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


180 

the men will not feel the same toward you aS 
before, and that a change of ownership would be 
advisable?” 

“I do not think that would make any material dif¬ 
ference," answered Albert. "No. I would not sell 
on that account. Of course, all business is conduct¬ 
ed for profit. If I could realize sufficient profit from 
the sale of the mine, I might sell." 

"What would you sell for—at what price?" 

"I must first consider the matter." 

"When can you let me know?" 

"In the course of a few days." 

"All right; and if you choose to sell, and I can 
afford it, I will buy." 

They sat silent for some time, Isaac Warden 
closely studying our hero’s face. At last he broke 
out. 

“Singular things, these chance resemblances." 

Albert looked up. 

"Yes," he answered absently. 

"You remember the first time I met you, in front 
of the post-office, and made so bold as to ask your 
name?" 

"Yes; I remember." 

"I really thought at that moment that you were 
an old friend of mine, one I had known some years 
ago. Of course, after I learned your name and re¬ 
membered that my friend must be nearly as old as 
myself at the present time, I saw that I was mis¬ 
taken; but for the moment I was carried back a 
quarter of a century. You resemble my friend very 


THE STRANGER’S STORY 181 

much; are in fact almost a living reproduction of 
what he was when about your age. Poor fellow! 
He, too, saw bitter trouble. I hope you will never 
be obliged to suffer as he did,” and Isaac Warden 
sighed. 

Albert looked at him curiously. 

"You have interested me," he cried. "This man 
who resembled me—tell me the history of his trou¬ 
ble; probably by your doing so I may be able to avoid 
those things that caused his affliction. Forewarned 
is forearmed, you know." 

"I hardly think you will ever suffer as he did, 
my friend. Your wife I have never seen; but from 
Doctor Gross’ account of her virtues, she must be a 
paragon. It was through his wife he was stricken." 

"Would you feel justified in relating the history? 
I am sure it must be interesting." 

The old gentleman gazed out of the window for 
fully five minutes. When he again turned his tace 
to our hero, teardrops glistened in the aged eyes. 

"It has been many years,” he murmured in a 
choked voice. "It can scarcely make much differ¬ 
ence now. You must know, young man, that my 
own life’s story is connected with this history. 
Memories of the past are sometimes sad; these to 
me are particularly so. I will tell you the story of 
my friend; also a portion of my own, as far as it is 
connected with the other. 


182 


oiN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


CHAPTER XXIV 

A FATHER* S TERRIBLE MISTAKE 

"About twenty-six years ago,as near as I can remem¬ 
ber, I was surprised one day by reading the ac¬ 
count of a marriage between a very dear friend, the one 
whose story I am about to relate, and a certain 
lady, the daughter of very wealthy parents, also 
highly connected. It surprised me, I say, for the 
reason that it had been reported that this same lady 
was engaged to marry a man much younger than 
my friend, although not so well connected, nor so 
well fixed in money matters. 

"It caused considerable comment in fashionable 
circles, for, although my friend was a very well pre¬ 
served man, decidedly handsome, still he was so 
much older than his bride, who was but a mere 
child of fifteen, that it caused people to talk. I 
took the liberty one day of speaking to him about 
the matter. He laughed and answered: 'My wife 
married me through love. She had the free con¬ 
sent of her parents, who provided her with ample 
dowry, so I know it was not money she wanted. We 
are very happy, and I do not consider that the 
world has anything to talk about.’ 

"I told him about the former report of a previous 
engagement. He informed me that there had been 
no other engagement on the part of either, and made 
some comment on the advisability of people mind¬ 
ing their own business. A hint was all I needed. I 


A 'FATHER'S TERRIBLE MISTAKE 183 

did not require kicking to make me understand 
that he did not wish the subject discussed; so I 
mentioned it no further, when in his presence. 

Not long after this, I had need of the services 
of a bookkeeper. I advertised, and through it, se¬ 
cured the services of a young iady who informed 
me that she had never worked for a livelihood be¬ 
fore, but was now obliged to do so, owing to the 
straitened circumstances in which her family were 
placed. I took a great interest in the girl, and 
finally found myself in love with her. Rather fool¬ 
ish for a man of my age; but we cannot always con¬ 
trol our hearts. At that time I was known as a 
hard, strict business man. Many who did not know 
me accused me of being decidedly mercenary; hard¬ 
hearted some termed me. They did not understand 
me. True, I would not allow any foolish tender¬ 
ness of heart to stand in the way of my business; 
but outside of that I do not consider that I was any 
worse than the majority of business men. 

“I finally proposed marriage to my bookkeeper, 
and found, to my surprise, that she shrank in hor¬ 
ror from the proposition. I said no more, at least 
for some time; but confined my attention strictly 
to my business relations with her. But the sight of 
her sweet, young face now growing worn and mel¬ 
ancholy each day, once more made me feel as if my 
life would be better worth living if she but shared 
it, and so I made bold to press my suit. I asked 
her the second time. This time I was more suc¬ 
cessful. She became my wife. 


184 *AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

“I met my friend a few days after the wedding, 
and an unmerciful chaffing he gave me. 'Think of 
it,’ he cried. 'Old Isaac Warden marrying his book¬ 
keeper. Who is the biggest fool now, you or me?’ 

“I attempted gruffness, used his own words that it 
was nobody’s business, and all that, but it had no 
effect upon him. ‘There is no excuse,’ he cried. 
‘You are the same as all men, and do you know 
what you have done?’ he added. 

"'Married a good, virtuous girl,’ I answered. 

"‘That may all be,’ he said. ‘But you have mar¬ 
ried the sister of the young man you connected my 
wife’s name with a short time ago. The man you 
stated she had been engaged to before marrying 
me.’ 

"This took me by surprise. I was not aware of 
the fact, although when I began to think the matter 
over, I saw that the names were similar. It must 
be true. 

"‘What difference does that make?’ I growled. 

"‘None that I know of; only it seems as if you 
were determined to have some connection with that 
family in some way. You could not have my wife 
married to the brother, so you must needs marry 
the sister.’ 

"I began to get angry. I told him I had merely 
heard the fact of the previous engagement of his 
wife mentioned in the circle in which I moved. 
He grew sober. 

'It was not true,’ he said. ‘They have known 
each other from childhood 3 nothing more. Why, 









































































“I HAVE THIS NIGHT BEEN AN EYE WITNESS TO MY 
WIFE’S INFIDELITY.”—Page 186 . 












































































<A FATHER’S TERRIBLE MISTAKE 185 

the young man visits my house constantly. We are 
the best of friends, and I would not think of going 
anywhere to any place of amusement without ask¬ 
ing him to accompany us.’ 

" 'Does he ever go with your wife, as a compan- 
ion, when you are not able to go?’ 

“He flushed. 

“‘Sometimes,’ he answered. ‘But that is all 
right.’ 

“‘Ah,’ I cried. 'I suppose so,’ and left him. I 
had discovered one thing, and that was that my 
friend was slightly inclined to be jealous. 

“I hurried home, my wife was not there. It v;as 
late when she returned. She informed me that she 
had been to visit her brother. I said nothing. I 
did not object to these visits. 

"A few mbnths passed b/. My friend’s wife had 
presented him with a beautiful boy, and naturally 
he felt proud of it. She recovered, and in che 
drives and walks which she took from that time 
out, my wife’s brother accompanied her. People 
began to talk; there are always a number of busy- 
bodies ready to cause trouble and dissension. They 
said it was singular that the husband could not see 
what his wife was doing, how completely she was 
pulling the wool over his eyes. I must admit, it 
did look suspicious. I even began to have my 
doubts about it. So much so, in fact, that I for¬ 
bade my wife from visiting her brother at all, fear¬ 
ful that her association with him might lead her to 
act in the same manner as my friend’s wife was dp- 


i86 


zAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


ing. 'Evil communications corrupt good morals,’ 
you know; at least that is the way I reasoned. I 
shall never forget the look of hatred my wife cast 
upon me when I told her of my wishes. It in¬ 
censed me at that time, and feeling that she would 
take advantage of my absence to disobey me, I had 
her watched; but I afterward discovered that she 
had been shrewder than any of us, and had met her 
brother several times after. 

"At last my friend heard the talk and was influ¬ 
enced by it. He began to watch his wife, and I 
could see the demon of jealousy had taken posses¬ 
sion of his mind. It went on until one night, as I 
was sitting in my study at home, I was startled by 
hearing a hasty ring at the door bell. The hour 
was late; I was sitting up waiting for my wife to 
return home. I had found her absent upon reaching 
the house; so I hurried to the door myself. I 
started back in surprise. It was my friend, and 
sleeping in his arms was his baby boy. 

"He brushed past me into the study. I closed 
the door and followed him. He had laid the sleep¬ 
ing child upon a lounge and was pacing the floor. 

"'It is all over, Isaac,’ he cried as I entered. 

"‘What?’ I asked in astonishment. 

" 'I have this night been an eye witness to my 
wife’s infidelity. I saw her in the park with that 
ungrateful hound. I saw all that passed between 
them. God help me, I wonder that I did not kill 
them both.’ 

"I sat in dumb amazement. Could this be possi- 


<A FATHER’S TERRIBLE MISTAKE 187 

ble? If so, where was my wife? Evidently it was 
not her brother that she went to meet. 

‘"What are you going to do?’ I asked. 

" 'Going to put the breadth of the country between 
us/ he answered. 

‘"Going to leave her!’ I cried. 

" ‘Yes; and my boy goes with me. He shall not be 
brought up under his mother’s damning influence.’ 

‘"But your property, man. Your stocks.’ 1 was 
thinking of the money. 

“ ‘You know about how much I am worth, Isaac. 
I have come to see you about it. I shall not need 
these things any longer. I have nothing left to live 
for, save my boy. He will not need property. 
Money is what he will find the most use for. I want 
money. I come to you for it.’" 

"‘But I cannot give it to you,’ I cried. ‘I do not 
keep a great amount in the house.’ 

‘‘He stopped and looked in my face. He looked 
like a wild man. 

‘"Isaac Warden,’ he said. ‘My property, all 
told, is worth nearly two hundred thousand dollars. 
It is nearly all preferred stocks, and real estate. 
Give me your check for fifty thousand and I will 
give you a receipt in full for all my property with a 
description thereof, and instructions to my lawyers 
and brokers to transfer it. Don’t make any objec¬ 
tions. I will not listen to them. You will have no 
trouble about the matters. I will write my people 
about it, and my signature is well known. Come; 

I am hurried/ 


i88 


c/W UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“I tried to reason with him; he would not listen 
to me, and so with a heavy heart, I wrote the check 
and received in return the receipt and letters he 
had spoken of. He left the house. I never saw 
him again. 

“I determined after he had gone not to take ad¬ 
vantage of this act of mad folly; but to allow the 
property to remain as it was, merely making a mem¬ 
orandum of the amount I had advanced, thinking that 
some day he would return, and I could then return 
him his property, he repaying me the loan. 

“He never returned. 

“An hour after his departure, I heard the sound 
of a key being stealthily inserted in the lock of the 
front door. I hurried out into the corridor. It was 
my wife. I met her face to face. Sternly I de¬ 
manded an explanation. She haughtily informed me 
that she had been with her brother. I told her she 
had not. I thought she lied. 

“ ‘If you doubt my word, sir, I shall offer no fur¬ 
ther explanation,’ she said, and swept past me up 
the stairs. 

“From that day out, for months, we did not speak, 

I believing her false; she, grossly insulted by my 
words. Two days passed by and then the papers 
came out and chronicled the sad affair. ‘A mys¬ 
tery,’ they headed it. Reading the account, I 
learned that the husband’s desertion was known to 
everyone, and that the wife had become insane from 
the affair. ‘Hopelessly Insane,’ they stated; but I was 
more than astonished to learn that the young man 



*A FATHER’S TERRIBLE MISTAKE 189 

who had been the cause of all this trouble had been 
one of the passengers of an outgoing ship, bound 
for Liverpool, leaving the day following. I must 
confess I did not understand this. It he had really 
been guilty of criminal association with the wife, 
why did he now desert her, after causing the sepa¬ 
ration, unless through fear? I learned upon inquir¬ 
ing that he was employed by a well known firm. 
They had sent him to Europe. He had not fled. 
The young wife was confined in an asylum for the 
insane. She remained there for many years. Her 
parents both died broken hearted, and the last I 
heard of this poor, young creature was that she had 
been removed from the asylum by some relatives, 
not entirely cured, but much better than she had 
been. We never heard of the husband. He may 
be even now living somewhere, believing his young 
wife guilty, rearing his son in ignorance of his 
mother.” 

Albert had risen from his seat during the old gen¬ 
tleman’s story. Part of it sounded strangely famil¬ 
iar. Where had he heard it before? He puzzled 
his brain. He knew it had been told him by some 
one. By whom, he could not at that moment recall. 

He gave over trying to think. 

“Was she guilty?” he asked. 

Isaac Warden hesitated. 

“I did not finish,” he said sadly. “This portion of 
the history touches me deeply. But as I have start¬ 
ed, I will finish. No. She was not guilty. Her 
innocence was proven when too late, after the father 


1 9 o o AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

and mother had departed this world, believing their 
daughter a sinful wretch; loving her despite it all, 
however. After the departure of her brother, my 
wife seldom left the house. She grew melancholy, 
and seemed to derive no pleasure from anything. 
At last she was taken very ill—in fact, confined to 
her bed. The physicians shook their heads when 
they visited her, and told me at last that no earthly 
power could save her. 

'“She is killing herself with restrained grief,’ they 
told me. 

“I went to her bedside one night. She shuddered 
as I approached her. She did not wish to speak 
to me. She had never loved me, and my accusa¬ 
tion that night had turned her young heart against 
me. 

“I fell upon my knees by her side, and begged 
her forgiveness. She coldly answered that my cruel¬ 
ty had killed her; that she could not grant my 
prayer. 

“'You doubted my virtue,’ she said. Hastily I 
told her the story of my friend; told her why I 
doubted her. 

“ ‘He saw his wife with your brother at the same 
hour that you claimed to have met him.’ 

“ ‘And has that caused the separation—all this 
misery?’ she asked. 

“I answered in the affirmative. 

'“Then may God forgive him,’ sne murmured. 
‘It was I he saw,’ and she told me how she had 
been in the’habit of meeting her brother in this 


*A FATHER’S TERRIBLE MISTAKE 191 


park; how he had sent her word this particular day 
that he was going to Liverpool the following morn 
ing; how she had met him for the last time, had 
been with him up to a late hour. I saw that she 
was telling the truth, and knew then that Hubert 
Greyson’s wife was innocent.” 

Albert started forward. 

“Whose wife?” he gasped. 

“Hubert Greyson’s. Is the name familiar?” 

A strange thought had flashed through his mind. 
He dared not think it; it was too terrible. 

“The name of the brother of your wife!” he cried. 

“The brother, Henry Rodney, my wife, Emma 
Rodney.” 

Our hero fell upon a lounge. He remembered 
when he had heard this story before—that is a great 
er portion of it. He recalled the death of his father, 
and the friend who had died at the same time. It 
could scarcely be that two stories of this kind could 
exist; two men in the world be guilty of such a 
terrible mistake? 

Isaac Warden was watching him curiously. 

“You are affected by this recital,” he cried. 

Albert arose. 

“Far more than you think,” he answered, pacing 
the floor. “I have heard a portion of it before re¬ 
lated to me by a dying man.” 

“And that man?” 

“Hubert Andrews, my father.” 

“Your father!” 

“Aye, my father, foully murdered—murdered as he 


192 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


strove, by the turn of the card, to win gold to ena¬ 
ble him to begin the search for that wife he had 
cruelly wronged. ” 

“But how did he become informed?” 

“By the return to America of him who had been 
the innocent cause of all this suffering—Henry Rod¬ 
ney.” 

“My God! Can this be true?” 

“As I tell you.” 

“Then Albert Andrews, Hubert Greyson was your 
father, and I have told you the story of your own 
early life—of your father’s terrible mistake, of your 
mother’s unhappy fate.” 

Albert fell into the nearest chair. He knew he 
spoke the truth. 


CHAPTER XXV 

JOHN BARTON’S REPLY 

The minutes dragged by. The ticking of the 
clock upon the mantel sounding sharply and dis¬ 
tinctly, as the two men sat as in a daze, Isaac War¬ 
den astounded at the strange discovery he had 
made; Albert Greyson, for such we must now call 
him, bewildered, dumbfounded. Finally Warden 
spoke. 

“And where is Rodney?” he asked in a low tone. 

“Dead. Murdered at the same time as my father,” 
Albert hoarsely answered. 

“Gone to meet his sister,” solemnly said Warden. 
“She died an hour after freeing your mother’s 



JOHN <B ALTON'S %E<PLY 19 j 

character from guilty stain. She forgave me before 
her death.” 

Tears stood in his eyes. Albert scarcely heard 
him. 

“And your mother, have you heard aught of her?” 
came the sound of the old man’s voice. 

Albert looked up. 

"Not one word. I had no clue. Neither my 
father nor Rodney had any knowledge of her where¬ 
abouts. They did not know her horrible fate.” 

"Did your father inform you of all?” 

“Yes; of his treatment of her. As the death sweat 
stood upon his brow he told me of the meeting 
in the park that he had witnessed; of his flight, 
of Rodney’s return, of their meeting but a few 
hours before upon the mountain side, and Rodney’s 
explanation. Just before he died he gasped, ‘‘Go 
find mother. Name—not Andrews. Mother’s 
name—” and then he died. I did not even know 
the place of my birth, he did not tell me that.” 

‘‘Then you do not know whether your mother is 
alive or dead.” 

‘‘I know only what you have told me.” 

"What shall you do?” 

Albert arose from his chair. The setting sun shone 
in at the window, shining full on his face, glorifying 
him for the moment with its expiring rays. 

“I shall find her,” he cried. "I have wealth; 
every penny of it shall be expended but what I shall 
find that wronged mother and whisper in her ear 
An Unconscious Crime 13 


• 94 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


that her husband, my father, passed away, knowing 
her to be innocent. The world shall be searched. 

I shall find her.” 

Tap—tap. A knock at the door. 

‘‘Come in." 

It was Jupiter—Jupiter with a bundle of letters. 

‘‘De evenin’ mail, Mister Al," he said, and, de¬ 
positing it upon the table, he left the room. 

Mechanically the dazed man looked it over. 
One by one he threw the letters from him, until at 
last, with a cry, he paused, holding in his hand one 
with a foreign stamp upon it. It was postmarked 
“Melbourne, Australia.” 

He heard the voice of his companion, as he stood 
staring at the bold superscription, half fearful of 
breaking the seal of this which would give him in¬ 
formation regarding his wife’s son, and possibly of 
her past life. 

“His wife’s lost son?" 

Yes. They must be brought together. His fath¬ 
er’s life had been wrecked; his mother’s made sor¬ 
rowful; but his own darling wife should never 
know grief or woe. He would find her boy, whom 
she called for in her dreams; also that dear mother. 
They would be a happy family, united in peace and 
love. The voice said—the voice of Isaac Warden 
—“I should not think there would be much trouble 
in ascertaining your mother’s whereabouts, living 
or dead. I know the name of the physician in 
charge of the asylum, and also the names of the 
relatives who removed her from his care.” 


JOHN % ALTON'S %EPL Y 195 

He looked up. 

Pardon me,” he said. "I scarcely heard you. 
You say—” 

“That I know the names of the relatives who took 
your mother from the asylum; also the doctor. 
The relatives formerly lived in Australia, and I 
think returned there shortly after." 

"Australia?” 

Why does this uncontrollable feeling of horror, 
this terrible presentiment, creep over his soul? 
“Australia.” There are plenty of people upon that 
continent. 

“What part of Australia?” he asks. 

“Melbourne.” 

Melbourne! He holds an unopened letter in his 
hand from Melbourne. A letter that is to be the 
means of bringing his wife and her lost son to¬ 
gether. 

“Yes, Melbourne.” He scarcely hears himself 
speak. “The relatives’ name—you know it?” 

“Well: John Barton.” 

My God! He holds a letter in his hand from 
John Barton —John Barton , of Melbourne , Australia / 
Can there be two John Bartons of Melbourne? It is 
growing dark—too dark to read the letter. He will 
wait until after he has eaten his supper. 

“Read it; read it now,” cries a voice in his heart. 

“It is too dark; I cannot see,” he reasons. 

“Light the gas. There are matches on the table. 
Light the gas and read the letter from John Barton, 
of Melbourne, Australia. It will tell you of your 


196 <AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

wife’s long lost son. It will be the means of bring¬ 
ing them together.” 

“You are startled at the appearance of this letter, 
which you are staring at,” cries Isaac Warden. 

“Am I? Oh! I—don’t know. It is from Mel¬ 
bourne. ” 

“Who do you know in Melbourne?” 

“Many people. I have resided there.” 

“Light the gas—light the gas,” persists the voice. 
He finds a match; there is one upon the table. 
He strikes it upon his boot, he turns on the gas, 
and then—tears open the envelope. He begins 
reading. Isaac Warden watches him curiously. 
He stops. 

“What is the doctor’s name in charge of the asylum 
where my mother was confined?” he asks absently. 
“Doctor Roberts.” 

Doctor Roberts—yes, he remembers Doctor Rob¬ 
erts. He had seemed to be acquainted with his wife; 
had mistaken her for a former patient—for a— Mrs. 
Grey son—Grey son. Singular how many people there 
are of the same name. Hubert Greyson, Mrs. 
Greyson—John Barton—Doctor Roberts. Strange; 
what can this mean? 

He feels Isaac Warden’s eyes upon him. He 
stops the perusal of this letter which he has been all 
eagerness to receive. 

“I will take it to my room,” he says to himself. 
“I must not allow the prying eyes of this man, 
Isaac Warden, to notice jny emotion. Yes; I will 
take it to my room and finish it there.” 



JOHN ‘BATONS REPLY i 97 

“Does the letter speak of Doctor Roberts?" asks 
Warden. 

“Merely mentions his name; that is all.” 

He goes to the door. He turns and looks back 
upon Isaac Warden. “You knew my father?” he asks. 

“He was my dearest friend.” 

When grief struck its deadly blow did it change 
him much?” 

“I hardly knew him the night he called upon me. 
He had grown old in a few hours.” 

He left the room. He felt an unaccountable feel¬ 
ing at his heart—felt as if it were ready to burst. 

Why this feeling? The portion of the letter he 
had read was not so appalling. Why should he 
feel this way? 

Presentiment. 

“Bah! Superstition!” he cries. 

He crosses the corridor to his room. It is in 
darkness. He finds a match and lights the gas. 

Then, sitting in his favorite chair, he starts to fin¬ 
ish the reading of John Barton’s letter. 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE NEWS THE LETTER BROUGHT 

Melbourne, Australia, May ist, 18_. 

Mr. Albert Andrews, D-, Pa, U. S. A. Dear 

Sir: Your letter announcing the circumstances of 
your marriage to my niece, and also of the birth of 
two little ones, and desiring knowledge that may 
lead to the discovery of the son of a former mar¬ 
riage lies before me. Jo say that its appearance 



198 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


created surprise in our peaceful home would be but 
inadequate to describe the impression it created. 
We really thought our niece dead. We heard of 
the rescue, but have never heard from her. It was 
natural that we should mourn her as one no longer 
in the land of the living. I can understand her 
reason for not writing, now that I have heard from 
you, and gladly do I take my pen to try and assist 
you in your laudable undertaking, although I must 
confess my doubts as to its successful termination. 
In order that you can thoroughly understand the 
facts of the case, I must go back many years. It is 
but right that you, as the husband of my niece, 
should know everything, and although I dislike to 
recall these things, still, I consider it my duty. 
Your wife was the daughter of my brother, Alonzo 
Barton. At a very early age she was married to a 
man many years her senior; but a good man, for all 
that, until certain events that I shall hereafter de¬ 
scribe took place. They were very happy, so my 
brother informed me, and were blessed with an in¬ 
fant son, about one year after marriage. About this 
time the husband grew suspicious of his wife; why, 
no one ever knew; at least, I never heard that she 
had given him any cause for the feeling; and finally 
he deserted her, taking with him the baby boy. 
This had the effect of driving her insane, and she 
became an inmate of the celebrated asylum at B—, 
which at that time was managed by a Dr. George, 
who, himself becoming afflicted, gave way to a Dr. 
Roberts, a much younger man, but equally as 
skilful as his predecessor. He took a great interest 
in the case of the young wife; but finally pronounced 
her as incurable. He wrote me to this effect, and 
advised a change of climate, as the best remedy for 
the afflicted one. The mother and father had died 
shortly before, and so upon my shoulders fell the 
responsibility. I accepted it, and being in Amer¬ 
ica at the time with my wife, answered the doctor’s 
letter in person. I felt naturally a little nervous 



THE NEWS THE LETTER BROUGHT 199 

about taking charge of the afflicted one. Most per¬ 
sons have a fear of those of unsound mind. But 
the doctor assured me that she was perfectly safe; 
so I accepted the charge, and returned to my home 
in Australia, my wife and niece accompanying me. 
After a time I found that the doctor had been cor¬ 
rect in his ideas, the climate of our beautiful land 
accomplishing wonders for my niece. She grew 
strong, and well, and I was astonished at the beauty 
that health brought to the face and form. She was 
happy and contented, had no thought of her former 
unhappiness, and probably would never have known 
of it at all had not an unfortunate event made it 
necessary for us to inform her. You must under¬ 
stand that the memory of her former life was un¬ 
known to her, Doctor Roberts claiming that her 
mind would ever be a blank as far as that was con¬ 
cerned, and we thought it best to allow her to re¬ 
main in ignorance of it. 

The unfortunate event I speak of was the proposal 
for her hand, made by a distinguished gentleman 
of this city. She had been much sought after by 
many of the wealthy unmarried men of this place, 
but had refused them all, until Francis Norton pre¬ 
sented himself, and then it was different. She 
came to me one day, and told me of his suit, and 
with many blushes confessed that she returned his 
love. This alarmed me and so, thinking that it 
might be best, I told her of her former marriage. 
I regretted it after doing so, for it brought back to 
her mind all the misery that we wished buried in the 
grave of the past. It was like removing a veil 
from the face of a horrible thing. Her mind, now 
vigorous and active, once more recalled all that had 
formerly been unknown, and the effect was nearly 
fatal to her, causing a spell of sickness that we 
thought she would never recover from. But she 
pulled through and we were gratified to see that 
the knowledge now in her power had not produced 
any detrimental effect upon her mind. She came 


200 


e AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


to me one day, and surprised me with the following 
words: "Uncle John: You remember I told you 
of Mr. Norton’s proposal, before my sickness?" 
"Yes,” I answered, wondering what was coming. 
"You thought it best to tell me of my unhappy past, 
that alas, comes more vividly to me each day. 
Now, Uncle John; I am going to surprise you. Your 
words were well meant. I am glad you told me 
all, but they have not changed my determination. 
I love Mr. Norton. I am going to marry him." I 
stood aghast. "But your first husband," I cried. 
She smiled a smile of bitterness. "There is such a 
thing as divorce," she answered. I had never 
thought of that. I saw that it was practicable ac¬ 
cording to the laws of our country, and to make a 
long story short we obtained one. She married 
Francis Norton, and lived happily for a short time. 
But it seemed as if some strange fatality followed 
her footsteps. Her happiness was destined to be 
brought to an abrupt close. Her husband was 
brought home to her one night dead. He had been 
drowned while bathing. She looked upon his pale 
face with eyes that showed no signs of tears. She 
grieved in a different manner—in the heart. For 
months she was a pitiful object. She loved her 
second husband and felt his loss; but she recovered 
and then there came a strong desire to find her boy, 
the son of the first marriage. We tried to dissuade 
her from the notion, telling her that he must be 
dead by this time, or in some far off corner of the 
world. She was as firm as the rock of Gibraltar 
upon this subject, and we finally agreed with her. 
She had made all necessary preparations to start 
upon her quest when suddenly she changed her 
mind. We did not ask for any explanation. We 
were glad that she had so determined. With the 
change came also a great change in disposition. 
She became gay and happy again, resumed her 
place as fashion’s queen, and seemed to have for¬ 
gotten her unhappiness ip the scenes of gaiety in 


201 


THE NEIVS THE LETTER BROUGHT 

which she’mingled. I afterward discovered why she 
had acted in this manner. She gave me the ex¬ 
planation. It was two weeks before she set sail 
u pon the Oceanic.” She came to me one night in 
my library. She was magnificently dressed for a 
bail. Uncle dear,” she called. I looked at her. 

Am I beautiful?” “Very, my child.” "Would you 
imagine that thirty-six years had passed over my 
a j 7 No. You look like a woman of twenty.” 
And she did. "I look much younger than I did 
when I first announced my intention of seeking my 
son?” “Yes.” I could not understand her. “Why 
do you ask?” “I have never given up that idea,’ 
Uncle,” she murmured. “And now that I have 
heard you say that I look younger, more beautiful, I 
will tell you why I changed my mind at that time. 
I was packing my last trunk when a glance in the 
mirror revealed to me the fact that I was looking 
decidedly haggard and miserable. ‘I will never 
go to my boy looking like a ghost;’ I said. “I 
will forget my sorrows, plunge into the vortex of 
fashionable follies, and see if I cannot recover my 
lost beauty.’ I did so. You have told me that I am 
beautiful. Now I shall go to my boy, and also, 
Uncle John, I shall show myself to that husband 
who had such little love for me in the olden days 
as to leave me a heart broken, insane creature, to 
die, for aught he cared. I am his wife no longer. 
I am the widow of a man much nobler than he ever 
was; but I shall have the satisfaction of dazzling 
his eyes, now growing dim, with my beauty, of 
making his heart sore with regret, when he sees 
what he has lost. Oh, I shall find him if he lives, 
and I shall win the love of my son from that hard 
hearted father. This is m3' determination, Uncle. 

I shall depart for America upon the first steamer 
that leaves this port.” Then she left me, astonished 
so I could not speak. She kept her word, and I 
have never laid eyes on her since. I knew why 
she has not written me; because her woman’s be^rt 


202 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


fell captive to your manly attractions. I sincerely 
hope she has never had reason to regret her mar¬ 
riage to you, and I feel assured that she will make 
you a good wife. I censure her for not telling you 
all, before marriage. It would have been better 
so. But now you know all her past life, and I 
don’t suppose it will materially affect your love for 
her. I cannot give you much information regarding 
the son, for we have not heard one word concern¬ 
ing him or his father since that father deserted his 
young wife. But I will tell you the name of my niece’s 
first husband and you may be able to trace him by 
that, although this is doubtful. He probably asumed 
another. His name was Hubert Greyson; that of the 
son, Albert. Hoping that you will be able to carry 
out your scheme, and by so doing bring happiness to 
one so deserving, I remain, Yours truly, 

John Barton, 

Seaside Villa, Melbourne, Australia. 

P. S. I suppose you are aware that your wife’s 
name is not Frances, as she is generally called. 
Upon the death of her husband she gave up using 
her proper name, Agnes, preferring to be called by 
that of her dead husband. Being a female name 
with the exception of the one letter, “i,” it is gener¬ 
ally supposed that it is her proper Christian name. 
Perhaps it is needless to mention this. She would 
certainly tell you.— J. B. 


CHAPTER XXVII 
wife: and mother 

Tick—tick, sounded the clock upon the mantel. 
“Whip-poor-will,” came the night bird’s voice 
through the open window. 

The flaring jet of gas shone down upon the table, 
upon the open letter, upon the form of the man who 



WIFE AND (MOTHER 


203 


with stony, staring eyes looked down upon the pages 
before him. He heard not the ticking of the clock, the 
sound of the night bird’s plaintive notes. The mur¬ 
muring of the wind among the branches of the tree 
that shaded his window struck upon deaf ears. He 
saw only the too plainly written words that carried 
grim despair to his soul. He heard only the beat¬ 
ing of his heart, as it throbbed in his bosom. 

"Will it break?" he thought with dumb, dazed 
curiosity. "Will I become a maniac—a gibbering, 
raving creature, to be confined behind iron bars?” 
He awaited with eagerness some indication that 
would betoken forgetfulness. He pinched himself 
roughly to assure himself that it was not a horri¬ 
ble dream—this letter. 

No. He could still remember. He was not 
asleep, nor dreaming. For an hour he sat before 
the table; for sixty long minutes the brain strug¬ 
gled to grasp the true meaning of the horrible fact. 

It came. He knew it was true, and the head fell 
forward upon the table, upon the open letter whose 
words burned into his soul, into his heart. 

“The ?iame is Hubert Grey son; the son's Albert!" 

Hubert Greyson! 

"My God!” His father, his darling wife’s first 
husband! His own father! He, the son, Albert! 
Wife? No—mother! Wife and mother! Wife and 
mother! 

The words danced through his brain. Wife and 
mother! 

He had married hie own mother / 


204 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


Great heaven! it cannot be true! It is too in¬ 
famous—too horrible! She, that fair, beautiful 
creature, the mother who had brought him into the 
world. She the mother of his own children —of little 
Rose; of that other, still unnamed. He arose and 
looked at his reflection in the mirror. He saw a 
pale, haggard face, wild, glaring eyes, unkempt 
hair. 

“I am going mad,” he muttered. “I shall forget 
in my mania all this." 

He thanked God that it was so. 

But she, the wife, the mother; what of her? 
She must know it. Their present life must be brok¬ 
en up—this life of crime. Was it crime? They 
were both innocent of sinful thought. Yes, crime, 
in the eyes of the world. How the world would 
talk; how they would pas's the delicious morsel 
from mouth to mouth, until the very air would re- 
sbund with the story of shame! » 

"Married his own mother!” they would cry, and 
then some, not one half as pure, some with tar¬ 
nished names, would look horrified and carry the 
news to some one else. 

And the papers! 

How they would pick it to pieces; how the re¬ 
porters would fly to learn the facts of the case; 
how the editors would chronicle with ghoulish glee! 

How would they head it? 

" The Last Sensation/" 

No, Not that. That would not be sufficiently 

Startling, 


WIFE ^ND MOTHER 


205 


"Married His Own Mo Fieri ' 

Yes; that was better. That is how the story of 
his shame would be headed, with staring capitals. 

"Oh, God, d^Ltroy me, miserable wretch that I 
am. Destroy ne before I look into that sweet face 
again—gaze into those soulful eyes.” 

"How would she take it—that wife? No. How 
strange, I cannot forget that— Mother! That is 
the title,—Mother! How will she take it? Will 
she fall dead when she hears the terrible news? 
Will the beautiful eyes grow wild, and the low, ten¬ 
der voice break forth in mad ravings? Ah. She 
has been mad before. His father made her so. 
Cruel desertion. Better than this crime. Will she 
become so again? Doctor Roberts had said so. 
He should know. He is a skilful physician. Yes. 
She will surely go mad. Why am I not so? I 
am growing impatient. It is time that my brain 
gave way. Is not the misery great enough? 

"The children, poor little creatures! Little Rose, 
with her childish prattle, her loving ways. She is 
Papa’s girl. Oh, God! Papa’s girl! She loves 
Papa—poor child. She has no father—the offspring 
of crime. Crime such as man has never seen be¬ 
fore. What will become of her?” 

And the other; she has no name yet. She can 
never have. What is this? "Madame Tissal’s 
Dream Revelator and Fortune Teller.” Bah! It 
lies.! No: it has told the truth this time. Cursed 
in her infancy. What will become of the nameless babies ? 

"Oh, Heaven, destroy me!” 


»o6 tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

What is that? an answer from heaven? 

"Look in your bureau drawer—the top drawer. 

"Why shall I look?" 

"Look in the drawer; look in the drawer." 

It is the voice in his heart. 

The drawer is opened. Ah, thank God, a means 
of deliverance. 

A revolver \ 

Yes; it is loaded. He always keeps it loaded. 

"Better this than to face her. Farewell, wife. No- 
mother. Wife and mother! Farewell, little Rose. 
Farewell, prattling babe, cursed in your infancy. 

I have been very happy. It is over now. I must 
go to meet my father, to call him to account. Yes, 
for his action has brought about this crime. For¬ 
give me, all. It is better so." 

A piercing scream at the door. 

"Merciful heaven, Albert! What are you going 
to do?" 

"Papa—my Papa." 

He sinks into a chair. The child runs to him. 

"Take me, Papa; I am your baby girl." 

A groan from the unhappy man. His wife and 
darling child. It must be told them. No. The 
child cannot understand it; but she can. She must 
be told. He feels the soft, cool hand upon his burn¬ 
ing brow. 

"What were you about to do, my husband?" the 
voice is tearful and anxious. 

He rises and throws off the hand. She calls 
him husband. She does not know. 


WIFE <AND MOTHER 


207 


"No! Not husband!" he cries hoarsely. He never 
forgets the look of pain in her beautiful eyes. His 
mother’s eyes. He could almost laugh, it seems so 
ridiculous to his feverish fancy. 

"Not husband," she speaks in a whisper—a won¬ 
dering whisper. 

"No—listen: You have a son by your first hus¬ 
band—by Hubert Greyson." 

She shrinks from him; she averts her face. 

"Not that name,” she murmurs. 

"Answer. You have a son living?" 

"Yes, yes,” low and frightened. Then, falling upon 
her knees, "forgive me for not telling you. I 
loved you so. I loved you so." 

He remembers; she has murmured those words in 
her dreams. 

"You seek for him?" his voice sounds harsh and 
unreal. 

"Yes—yes. What of him?" eagerly. 

"I have found him.” 

"Thank God!" She rises; her face has grown di¬ 
vinely beautiful in her mother’s eagerness. 

"Look upon him." 

She glances about the room. She sees none save 
her husband and the half frightened child, clinging 
to his knee. 

"Where, Albert; where is my boy?” 

"Here, wife; here, mother! I am your son, Hu¬ 
bert Greyson was my father. 

The clock ticks. The wind still murmurs through 
the trees. The wife looks upon the husband with 


§b8 


<*JN UNCONSCIOUS CRIMtt 


wild, startled eyes. She does not understand hint. 

Is this some ghastly joke? Is her husband be¬ 
reft of reason? 

“I do not understand you, Albert.” 

He points to the open letters; she reads all, every 
Word. She understands it now. 

One wild shriek, that arouses the sleeping echoes, 
and startles the servants below; a violent swaying 
of the beautiful form, and she falls upon the car¬ 
pet. Isaac Warden hears the cry. The doctor 
has forbidden him to leave his room. 

‘‘The doctor be d—d,” he mutters, as he thinks 
of it, and he makes the best of his way to the room 
from which the cry has proceeded. 

A crowd of servants are standing in the door as 
he draws near. He brushes them aside. He sees 
the extended form upon the rich carpet. He sees a 
frightened child crying in baby tones for its mother. 
He sees a wild, haggard man pacing the floor, with 
hands entangled in the waving hair. The man sees 
him. 

‘‘Ah! Isaac Warden, the friend of my father; 
you knew him. You told me grief made him old 
in a night. Look at me! I am his son. Do you 
think it has altered me? Do I show it? Do I 
look any older? Ah, Isaac Warden, congratulate me. 
I have need of your words of pleasure. I have 
been successful. I have had no difficulty in 
mysearch. I have found my mother. There she 
lies!” 

Isaac Warden hurries to the side of the woman; 



HE SINKS INTO A CHAIR AS THE CHILD AP¬ 
PROACHES HIM.—Page 206 . 
















































AN EDITORIAL FROM THE IVORLD 209 

he raises the beautiful head, the face is turned to¬ 
ward the floor. He turns it over. 

“Great heaven!” he cries. 

He recognizes her. 

He understands all. 

“Ah ! You knew my mother in her girlish beauty. 
Is she not more beautiful now than then? Is not her 
face divine? Ha—ha—ha! Beautiful indeed. It capti¬ 
vated the heart of her son. 

“It has held the love of her husband!” 

A wild cry, a maniacal laugh, and there are two 
forms upon the carpet. 

The child cries. 

“Peace, little darling,” says old Isaac Warden. 
She runs to him. 

“Is Papa and Mamma sick?” she cries. 

The old gentleman groans. 

“Yes, child; very sick.” 

He knows they are sick oTlife. 

God help these little ones. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

AN EDITORIAL FROM THE WORLD 

“Never in the history of our land has there been 
recorded such an unheard-of calamity as that which 
has befallen the happy home of Albert Andrews, or 
Greyson, one of our wealthiest mine owners and in¬ 
fluential citizens. 

It is impossible for the mind of man to imagine 
the weight of woe that has fallen in a few short 

An Unconscious Crime 14. 



210 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


hours upon the hearts of himself and wife. Pos¬ 
sessed of wealth, two beautiful children, all that 
goes to make the world a pleasant place to live in, 
in a day all is swept away. The happy home is 
broken up; the stricken man driven nearly insane; 
his beloved companion laid low upon a bed of sick¬ 
ness from which she may never arise, and if so, her 
life will no longer be worth the living. Married to 
his own mother! It seems the hideous phantom of 
a diseased imagination. We have published the full 
account of the lives of these two, and our readers 
can readily see that no blame can be attached to 
either. They are both guilty of a horrible crime in 
the eyes of the law; yet are they innocent. The 
crime was committed unconsciously; still that fact 
makes it none the less appalling. A father’s mistake 
in years gone by, has been the cause of it all. 

A divorce has been granted by our courts, which 
was hardly necessary, as the marriage was not a legal 
one at any rate. Still, out of sympathy for the prin¬ 
cipals in the unfortunate affair, our courts have 
granted the divorce. 

It is a terrible thing to contemplate, the future of 
the two innocent children. They cannot, by law, 
lay claim to any part of the estates of the father, 
and the mother possesses no property, save that 
which she is entitled to as the widow of Hubert 
Greyson; her rightful third. Being no marriage, the 
children are really illegitimate, and we shudder to 
think of the blight put upon their lives—the horri¬ 
ble stain of an unconscious crime, for which they 
are not responsible, but which will certainly affect 
them in after years, if they should live. It would 
be infinitely better for them if the Divine Creator 
of all saw fit in his wisdom to remove them from 
the earth before the full knowledge of their painful 
situation becomes known to them. From latest re¬ 
ports we hear that the unhappy man contemplates 
selling his property, even at a sacrifice, and leaving 
the country. It seems hard that he must desert that 


tout) ‘BY is A AC IVtARSDEN aii 

mother, who has become known to him for the first 
time in life; that wife who has been the very ideal 
of his heart; leaving her to bear it all, in case of 
her surviving the terrible blow. But it is evident 
to all that it is the only plan to pursue. It is bet¬ 
ter so. Mr. Isaac Warden, to whom we are in¬ 
debted for many of the facts, assures us that he will 
assume the guardianship of the little ones, in case 
of the death of the mother, and will do all that lies 
in his power to have them educated in a proper 
manner, keeping the story of their unfortunate par¬ 
ents from them. 

The uncle of Mrs. Greyson—Mr. John Barton, of 
Melbourne, Australia, has been cabled, and will 
probably provide for his niece, as we understand 
that she is the only living relative he has upon 
earth, with the exception of his wife. 

We sincerely hope that the matter will fade from 
public memory as soon as possible, and that the 
charity which ‘covereth a multitude of sins/ will be 
extended to the unfortunate beings connected with 
the sad affair. To use a hackneyed expression: 
‘Verily, truth is stranger than fiction.’” 


CHAPTER XXIX 

TOLD BY ISAAC WARDEN 

"I have just come from seeing my unhappy 
friend, Albert Greyson, off upon the steamer bound 
for Liverpool, to begin the wanderings which must 
continue until the day of his death, and, somehow 
or other, I don’t think that day far distant. He has 
lost much flesh, his eyes are sunken deep in their 
sockets, he has no interest in anything pertaining 
to life. He wishes for death. 



212 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"Can I blame him? No. In my heart I believe 
it would be better for him. 

"The tears stood in his eyes as he clasped my 
hand at parting. 

"T will never see you again,’ he cried. ‘Teach 
my little ones to look upon their father as dead. I 
am not a bad man, but I have committed a terrible 
sin. Keep the knowledge of my destination to your¬ 
self, my friend. I do not want my actions record¬ 
ed, providing a theme of conversation for the world. 
I want to be forgotten. And she, my mother, (I 
cannot call her wife,) if she recovers, see that she 
is provided for with the money I have left at her 
disposal. I kissed her pale face for the last time 
on earth last night. She did not know me. She 
was unconscious. I hardly think that she will ever 
be the same woman again. It will be a kind of 
Providence if she never recovers. Poor woman! 
Deserted by the father, cursed by the son.’ 

"I saw him standing upon the deck as the mighty 
steamer faded from view. Gone out into the world, 
a wanderer upon the face of the earth. I shall wait 
until John Barton answers my cablegram, or comes 
in person, before I shall decide what is best to be 
done. I am an old man. I cannot live many years, 
and it would be better for him, as a relative of the 
family, to assume the responsibility of the chldren’s 
future life, rather than do so myself. Still, I shall 
do what is right. They shall not be left alone in 
the world without a friend. Dr. Gross says that it 
is very doubtful if Agnes ever recovers. If she 


REFLECTED IN THE WATERS 


213 


should arise from her bed of sickness she will never 
have the use of her faculties again. Ah me! It is 
a sad affair all through. I read in the papers some 
days ago that that estimable man and good physi¬ 
cian, Dr. Roberts, has been compelled to give up 
his position on account of ill health. He has de¬ 
voted too much of his valuable life to the study of 
his profession. He is going to Europe, so I under¬ 
stand. He will be shocked when the sad news 
reaches him. I dread to think of the future of 
these poor little ones. I wonder how it will all 
end. ” 


CHAPTER XXX 

REFLECTED IN THE WATERS 

Midsummer. 

With its blazing, burning sun; with its sudden 
and unexpected showers; with its plentiful harvest 
of golden grain and sweetly scented clover. Mid¬ 
summer in all its glory. 

It has been a very warm day. Since early morn¬ 
ing the rays of “Old Sol” have increased in burn¬ 
ing intensity until at one o’clock, the mercury in 
the thermometer hanging at the door fairly bubbles 
at ioo° in the shade. 

The harvesters are resting beneath the shade of 
the larger trees that form a boundary line between 
two large estate?. They prefer to work until late 
at night, rather than run the risk of sunstroke in 
th^ brpad fields, 



214 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


Two fair maidens industriously fan themselves 
upon the broad veranda, which extends around the 
large old fashioned house. Around a house that would 
arrest the attention of a passing artist, and compel 
him to sketch its picturesque outlines and reproduce 
them upon canvas, with the simple title beneath: 
"An old English Manor.” A title well befitting it, 
for, although the comfortable residence of John 
Barton is in America, its appearance is such as to 
remind the traveler through England of one of the 
many roomy, rambling mansions to be found there. 

It is built of grey stone, two stories in height, 
with massive gables projecting from all sides, its 
rough, stone walls being nearly hidden from view 
by the creeping ivy, and its imitator, the Virginia 
creeper; bright green vines that nearly cover the 
large gable windows and cluster about the very 
edge of the roof itself. We have said the maidens 
upon the veranda were fair. Truly, we have spoken 
correctly—fairer than the ordinary run of maidens 
encountered in many days’ travel. One, the eldest, 
apparently, of a dark olive-tinted complexion, the 
other fair as a lily, with waving bronze hair, upon 
which the few rays of the sun, shining in from 
among the trees, rest, as if loth to depart, causing 
bright scintillations of golden light to reflect among 
the glorious masses of this, the crowning beauty of 
woman. 

She has been idly gazing out over the broad lawn 
tiiat extends for some distance before the house, 
down to the edge of a rippling stream, disguised by 


2I 5 


REFLECTED IN THE WATE%S 

the name of lake. It is really a lake, being sur¬ 
rounded by land, and a very pretty lake, too, at 
that; but a lake in miniature. 

“My! how warm,” she murmurs, falling back 
lazily in the reclining chair. "I dislike warm 
weather. It is such an effort to amuse one’s self. 
The butter is invariably soft, the flies will insist up¬ 
on drowning themselves in the milk, the sun will 
shine directly in your eyes, when you wish to read, 
and, altogether, warm weather is decidedly un¬ 
pleasant. ” 

Her companion smiles. 

“A small portion of ice on the butter, a napkin 
over the milk pitcher, a sequestered spot on the 
shady side of the house, will counteract the unpleas¬ 
antness you have spoken of as part of glorious sum¬ 
mer, Lilia dear. We cannot have all things as we 
should like them. I am sure it is not very warm 
here. ” 

The other laughs. 

“You invariably bring your common sense to bear 
upon any subject I introduce, Rose," she says. “It 
is not as warm here, as out in the fields, where the 
poor men are roasting their brains in harvesting; 
but, still, it is warm enough. I wonder how the 
thermometer really stands.” She rises and goes 
to the invention of Fahrenheit—that good man, who 
gave suffering humanity the means of ascertaining 
how much they were really suffering. 

“Why, it is one hundred, and in the shade, too. I 
think that i§ warm enough for any one. It is re- 


N UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


216 

freshing to look at the thermometer, and see that 
there is a freezing point. It makes one cooler to 
think of it. I wonder why there is not a roasting 
point. It would be amazingly in keeping with the 
weather.” She stands by the door, looking at the 
instrument as she speaks. A young man has come 
up the gravel walk, and approaches her unseen. A 
young man, decidedly handsome, with mischief 
gleaming in his blue eyes, and a smile upon the 
parted lips, as he creeps stealthily toward her, with 
a gesture of silence to the other, who observes him. 
He places his hands over the eyes of the golden 
haired beauty. 

A slight scream. 

"That is you, Harry,” she cries. 

No answer. 

"Well, if it ain’t Harry, it must be Charley.” 

"Right!” cries the new comer. "It is Charley,” and 
he removes the firm, white hands. "May I inquire 
what causes this intense interest in the indicator of 
heat and cold?” 

"Why, certainly you can, you hateful thing. After 
mussing up my frizzes with your hands, you can go 
on inquiring all day. I am not compelled to answer 
you;” and the pouting beauty returns to her chair 
and does not deign to notice him further. 

He stands at the back of her chair. 

"And is Lilia angry at Charley,?” he cries, teas- 
ingly. 

She fans herself vigorously, 

“Come, J only joking,” 


REFLECTED IN THE WA TERS 


217 


“You have no business to joke, when the weather 
is so warm, and it is so hard to keep your hair in 
curl,” she snaps. 

“I beg your pardon.” 

“Go to Rose. You came to see her anyhow; you 
have no business to waste your time with me.” 

Rose flushes and Charley whistles. 

“Why, Lilia, Charley comes to see us both,” cries 
the dark one. 

“Do you think I am a fool?” cries Lilia. “I have 
two eyes and I can put them to very good use. 
Now, shall I tell you what my eyes see? Well; 
when Mr. Charley Atkinson comes to the house of 
John Barton, he invariably asks for the Misses Bar¬ 
ton, not Rose nor Lilia, but the Misses Barton. He 
does this to make it appear as though he merely 
called to pass away a few hours of his valueless 
time in the society of these two ‘very charming 
young ladies/ as the papers state.” 

“Lilia!” cries Rose, warningly. 

“Never mind. I’ve started and I shall finish.” 

“Is it not rather warm for such an effort?” remarks 
Charley. 

“You keep quiet!” snaps the imperturbable one. 
“The Misses Barton are ever glad to see their 
friend, Mr. Charles Atkinson; but I always notice 
that whenever an opportunity presents itself, 
Mr. Atkinson inveigles Miss Rose into some out- 
of-the-way spot, leaving Miss Lilia to do the best 
she can. You need not deny it. You know I am 


2 l8 


,1N UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


speaking the truth. There is a guilty flush upon 
your countenances.” 

“Nonsense!” cries the young man, his face feel¬ 
ing decidedly warm. “I am a friend of the family. 

“Certainly; of the Rose portion of the family. If 
you are so much of a friend of the family, why 
don’t you go in and read to poor old Uncle John, 
once in a while; instead of walking all over the sur¬ 
rounding country and sailing or rowing on the lake 
with Rose, keeping me awake waiting for her until 
midnight? Oh, I know you. Precious little you 
care for the family, Charley Atkinson,” and thus 
delivering her opinion, she deliberately turns her 
back upon the two and hums the fragment of a song. 

“I am going to prove that you are unjust,” says 
Charley. “I have come to invite you both to attend 
Mrs. Boothby’s lawn party, at three. I would like 
you to attend.” 

“Sha’n’t go,” cries obstinate Lilia. 

“And why not?” 

“In the first place, because you would rather go 
alone with Rose. In the second place, because it is 
too warm.” 

“Now, Lilia, don’t be obstinate,” remonstrates 
Rose. 

“I am not obstinate/Lanswers Lilia. "I don’t feel 
inclined to visit Mrs. Boothby. She and I are not 
good friends; she spoke of me to Mr. Brown as 
“that red-headed girl of Barton’s,” and I have 
never spoken to her since. I am not red-headed, 
and I consider her words an insult.” 


%EFLECTED IN THE WATERS 219 

Are you sure she said that?” asks Charley, 
gravely. 

“I heard her. My ears are good." 

"And your tongue," thinks Charley. 

"She did not mean it," says Rose, in a conciliatory 
manner. 

"She had no business to say it." 

"I would not cherish malice." 

"I am not malicious, Rose Barton. Besides I 
have another reason for not wishing to go.” 

"Well?” 

"Well what?” 

"What is your other reason?” 

"Well, if you must know: The weather is too 
warm, and I know I shall perspire, and I have not any 
dress shields to my light dresses and I will ruin 
them.” 

Charley laughs, and Rose gets red in the face. 

"You should not speak of such things before a 
gentleman,” she says. 

Lilia arises from her chair. 

"If you don’t want me to tell the truth before 
gentlemen, why do you ask me?” she retorts. 

"I never imagined such a ridiculous answer.” 

"Ridiculous! Well, you are a cool one, Miss Rose 
Barton. I’ll go away. You can go to the lawn party 
at Mrs. Boothby’s and I’ll go out in the barn and 
amuse myself with the puppies. Their dumb soci¬ 
ety is sufficient for me. One satisfaction: they can’t 
speak, and I prefer them to two-legged puppies, ” and 
she darts off in the direction of the barn, 


220 


C AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


Rose looks up in Charley’s face. 

“I wonder if she had reference to me,” asks that 
gentleman. 

“No, of course not,” replies Rose. “Lilia is a 
strange girl. She says many things that she does 
not mean.” 

“Oh, does she?” absently. 

“Yes. She is a great pet, you know, and Uncle 
John gives her her own way in everything." 

“And you?” 

“Oh, I’m older. I am no longer a child." 

“You are a charming woman,” he cries. 

“No flattery, Mr. Atkinson, or I will believe that 
Lilia is right." 

“In what respect—that I am a two-legged puppy ?” 

“She did not say you were a puppy. No; not 
that. She remarked your fondness for my society.” 

“And suppose I say she is right?" 

“You must not say it. Remember, I took your 
part. You are a friend of the family—nothing 
more." 

He seizes her hand. 

“She is right,” he murmurs. “And so are you. I 
am a friend of the family; but must confess my 
partiality for one member, above the others.” 

“Is it not warm?" she asks to change the subject. 

Decidedly so," he cries, not meaning the 
weather. 

“I wonder if it will grow cooler by evening?" 

Never! he cries. “Never, Even at the even¬ 
ing of life," 


REFLECTED IN THE WATERS 


221 


“What are you talking about?” she asks, turning 
and looking him in the face. “Are we to be op¬ 
pressed by this terrific heat all day?" 

“Is it oppressive?” he murmurs. 

“Why, of course. It is decidedly uncomfortable.” 

“I regret that.” 

“Will you explain what you mean?" 

“Certainly. I mean the warmth of my love, the 
heat of my passion.” 

“I had reference to the weather.” She quietly re¬ 
moves her little white hand and looks down at the 
floor. 

"I regret that you find it oppressive, and that its 
warmth makes you uncomfortable,” he says. 

“I did not say that," she murmurs. “I was speak¬ 
ing of the heat.” 

"It is warm. What say you to a row upon 
the lake, keeping near the shore, beneath the shade 
of the trees?" 

“And Mrs. Boothby’s lawn party?” she inquires 
roguishly. 

“Bother Mrs. Boothby!” he cries. “If Lilia had 
gone we should have attended; but as she has re¬ 
fused, I would prefer the lake, unless you wish to 
go,” he hurriedly adds. 

“I think I prefer the lake, myself,” she says. 
“It is cooler.” 

They stroll down to the water. A fancifully painted 
pleasure boat is confined by a cord to a stake, driv¬ 
en in the bank. She seats herself in the stern, and 
he casts off the line, and takes up the oars. He is 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


222 

a perfect oarsman, and a few strokes bring them 
beneath the spreading branches of the trees that line 
the west shore. He rows in silence for some time, 
and then, taking in his oars, allows the boat to drift 
upon the placid bosom of the lake. 

"If it could be ever like this!” he says. 

"Like what?” she inquires, leaning over the side 
of the boat, with one white hand trailing in the 
clear water. 

"Floating on the bosom of the stream of life, with 
one we love near us.” 

"Pleasant,” she murmurs. "But storms some 
times come, and then the waters are not so smooth 
and placid.” 

He takes the other hand in his own. 

"With a good pilot at the helm, the frail craft 
can be guided safely through the most severe storm. 
Love, the pilot, tempests affect us not.” 


She does not answer him. The waters of the lake 
have developed great interests for the girl. 


"Rose," he cries in 
cannot it ever be?" 

a low, 

fervent 

tone. 

"Why 

"We cannot sail 

forever; 

she answers. 

"We 

must return soon.” 





"Forever on the stream of 

life," he 

cries. 

"My 


darling! You know I love you. You have surely 
seen it. You are not blind. Your heart must surely 
have felt the presence of my passion; yet you avoid 
me * True, you do not repulse me; but you turn 
my words to jest. You do not seem to understand 
me; even Lilia has seen it. You must know it.” 


223 


REFLECTED IN THE WATERS 

She averts her eyes. 

“And if I should confess that I have seen it: that 
I know it, and have purposely avoided the topic,” 
she says. 

“Then I would say you are cruel.” 

“The rose is ever cruel. Sharp thorns lurk near, 
to wound the hand that would pluck it.” 

“But many succeed, despite the thorns, and wear 
them in their bosoms as a token of victory.” He 
speaks triumphantly. “My Rose; my cultured 
tender flower. I have worn you in my heart for 
years, since I have known you. Can you not give 
me the privilege of wearing you openly before the 
world? Of saying: ‘This is my treasure—my all 
—my wife?” 

She hesitates. 

“Answer me,” he cries. “I love you. I would 
have you for my own. Answer me. Do you not 
love me?” 

He has forgotten all about the boat. It drifts 
idly on. He hears nothing, save the murmuring 
of the waters; sees nothing, save the pure, tender 
face before him. 

She is gazing into the water; she hears his 
voice; she answers: 

“Yes. I love you.” 

He nearly upsets the boat in his eagerness. He 
clasps her in his arms, and covers her face with 
kisses. 

“And you will be mine?” he cries. 

She struggles a little in his arms; but he is 


224 


UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


stronger than she,*and holds her tight. She sub¬ 
mits to his caresses. He awaits her answer. 

“I cannot promise you,” she whispers. “I must 
consult my uncle first.” 

He releases her. 

“And is your love not sufficient to give me some 
definite answer?” 

Charley: I love you enough to sacrifice even 
life itself for you; but my uncle and aunt are the 
only parents I have ever known. It would be un¬ 
grateful to them to take this step without asking 
their consent.” 

He has her in his arms again. 

"And if they consent, you will be my wife?” 

"Yes.” 

He repeats the programme, usual upon occasions 
like this. 

The waters of the lake reflect the scene of 1 ove. 


CHAPTER XXXI 

A HEART BOWED DOWN 

It is growing dark as these two to whom love has 
come for the first time leave the boat and walk, arm 
in arm, toward the house. They have been drifting 
on the bosom of the lake all the Jong summer after¬ 
noon, heedless of the flight of time, thinking only 
of the great happiness which has come to them, 
revelling in the blissful thoughts it brings them! 
The harvesters pass them as they walk along, with a 
respectful good evening, Miss Rose,” and an awk- 

























“LAY THE BLAME UPON MY SHOULDERS.”—Page 225 . 



































hEa%t vowed vown 


225 


ward tip of the hat. They have finished their day’s 
work, and are now hurrying home to wife and chil¬ 
dren, or a mother’s caress. Yes; it is growing 
quite dark. 

"You should be punished for keeping me out un¬ 
til this hour,” whispers the maiden; but her tone 
belies her word. 

“It is your fault,” he answers. "You should not 
make yourself so fascinating as to cause me to for¬ 
get myself." 

"Uncle John will scold me,” she murmurs, not no¬ 
ticing his remark. 

"Lay the blame upon my shoulders. I will try to 
conciliate the old gentleman." 

“You will have enough upon your shoulders when 
you get me." 

"I am willing to bear the burden;” and he means it. 

They have reached the house; she steps upon the 
piazza. She gently removes the hand which he is 
holding as if loth to give it up. 

"Must you go in?” he pleads. 

"Why, you selfish creature; do you wish to de¬ 
prive me of my supper?" 

"Pardon me,” he cries. "I did not think. I am 
not hungry. I could live upon the music of your 
voice. ” 

"And starve. Not a very strengthening diet,” and 
she laughs. 

"And my answer; when will you speak to your 
uncle?” 


An Unconscious Crime 15 


226 


JN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"This very night, Mr. Impatient. I will tell you 
his decision to-morrow." 

“I will call immediately after breakfast. 

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea to remain all night 
and then you would be here earlier?” she asks 
roguishly. 

“Don’t tease me, Rose. Do you think there is 
any danger of Mr. Barton refusing to give his con¬ 
sent?” anxiously. 

“Do you think I could feel so merry if I thought 
so?” answers Rose. 

They linger for a few moments and then, with a 
parting embrace they separate, Charley to return to 
his home, which is not far distant, to dream the 
live-long night of beautiful Rose Barton. Rose to 
enter the house and hurry toward the room where 
she knows supper is awaiting her. 

“So you have managed to come at last?” assails 
her as she makes her appearance. It is Lilia, her 
sister; lovely Lilia, with her glorious hair floating 
in a cloud down to her waist, holding two blinking, 
blear-eyed, furry puppies in her arms, while the 
mother, a large Shepherd, looks rather anxiously at 
her, for fear she will injure her babies. 

“I was out on the lake,” murmurs Rose, as she 
hurries to her uncle’s chair. 

“With Charley?" snaps Lilia. “I would not name 
one of these sweet little creatures Charley for all 
the world. I think it is a horrid name. Don’t 
you, Bess?” to the dog. 

Rose does not notice her. She goes to her uncle, 


*A HEA%T <BOJVED TtOlVN 227 

an old man now, with hair as white as the fleecy 
clouds, with a gentle, kindly smile upon his face, 
for these two children whom he loves. The faith¬ 
ful companion for life, his boyhood’s love, his wife, 
sits beside him. She looks up as Rose enters. 

"Have I kept you waiting long?” inquires the 
fair one, kissing them both tenderly. 

"Only a few minutes, dear,” answers the uncle. 

"I was out on the lake.” 

"With Charley,” interposes Lilia. 

"Night came on before I noticed it,” continues 
Rose, without noticing the interruption. 

"Youth is the time for pleasure,” says John Bar¬ 
ton. "Make the most of it. Now you are here, we 
will ring for tea.” 

They gather around the table, the evening meal 
is eaten, amid much laughter and sincere hap¬ 
piness. 

Lilia shares her supper with her dumb friends, the 
puppies making sad havoc with the china, as she 
tries to assist them in eating from her plate. 

They adjourn to the library, after tea, where Rose 
reads aloud to them for an hour, and then they pre¬ 
pare for bed. 

Lilia has gone; kissing them all before doing so. 
Rose approaches her loved relative. 

"I would like to speak to you, Uncle John,” she 
says in a low tone; "before you retire," she contin¬ 
ues. 

He looks at her from over the tops of his spec¬ 
tacles. 


228 cAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

“Important business, I suppose,” he says, jest¬ 
ingly. 

“Important to me, Uncle dear.” 

The aunt has left the room, probably for the pur¬ 
pose of seeing the house securely locked up before 
she retires. The good lady has read a great deal 
about tramps, and burglars, and she is careful of the 
fastenings each night, seeing that they are secure 
before retiring. 

So they are alone, uncle and niece. He places 
his wrinkled hand upon her raven braids, and a ten¬ 
der look of love comes to the kindly eyes. 

“Well, little girl, I am at your service,” he says. 

She brings a stool and sits at his feet, a favorite 
position with her, one she has been accustomed to 
from early childhood. 

The lamp is burning brightly upon the table, 
casting a mellow reflection upon her, as she sits, a 
child again, at her uncle’s feet. 

She tells him the story of her love, speaking of 
her manly lover in girlish tones of tenderness. She 
tells him that he has asked her to become his wife. 
She is not looking at his face; she does not see the 
look of misery, of intense horror, that comes to the 
aged face. 

“I am to give him my answer in the morning, 
Uncle,” she concludes. “I would not give him a 
decided answer until I had asked your consent.” 

He makes no reply. How can he? What can 
he say to this young loving creature who nestles at 
his feet? He had been dreading this day to come. 
He had felt it in his heart, that it must come. 


*A HEART VOWED T)OWN 


229 


What could he say? It would never do to give his 
consent to this marriage. The Atkinsons were of 
an old and honored race, the boy, Charles, the last 
male descendant of the family, while she, his dar¬ 
ling, the loving child who sat before him, she— 
could boast of nothing but dishonor, disgrace, an in¬ 
heritance of shame, of crime so horrible that its 
memory caused a shudder to creep over him. 

Must the young life be blighted; the loving heart 
broken? 

She is waiting for his answer. She grows alarmed 
at his long silence. She looks up in his face and 
sees the look of stony despair delineated there. 
She arises and puts one arm about his neck. 

“Has my confession startled you, dear?" she asks 
in alarm. 

He answers her in a voice so changed that she 
hardly recognizes it. 

“More than you can imagine,” he says. She 
draws back in surprise. She had not expected this. 
She had thought he would kiss her fondly, and give 
his consent with a blessing. 

“Why, Uncle, what is there in my story of love 
to cause you pain?” a look of wounded surprise in 
the dark eyes. 

“Ah, my child, if you only knew,” he averts his 
face; he groans in his anguish. 

“Is it because you do not wish to lose me?" 

"Not that, darling; although it # would be like 
losing the support of my old age. I could bear it, 


230 


AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

{or your happiness if it were only that. No—no. 
It is more than that.” 

She stands before him, her heart wounded, her 
large eyes wondering. 

"Tell me,” she cries. "Tell me what grieves 
you." 

‘‘God help me, child, I cannot. 

This is not like her uncle. He has never been 
like that before. There must be something terri¬ 
ble to cause this look of pain, this aversion to 
speak. 

“You like Charley—Mr. Atkinson?” 

“He is a noble boy, of a good family.” 

“You love me, Uncle dear?” 

“You are my treasure.” 

“You would like to see me happy?” 

“If I did not I should not suffer.” 

“He has asked me to marry him, Uncle. Your 
consent will make me oh, so happy. 

The tortured man groans in his agony. 

“I cannot give it,” he says hoarsely. “This mar¬ 
riage cannot take place.” 

She turns pale and seizes the back of a chair for 
support. 

“Cannot take place,” she murmurs, doubting the 
evidence of her senses. 

He sits with downcast eyes. He cannot look in 
the pained, wondering eyes. She is sorely wound¬ 
ed. What can this mean? She falls on her knees 
before him. She bursts into tears. 

'‘You refuse to make me happy," the young 


*A HEART VOWED c DOWN 


231 


voice cries, with an accent of reproach and pain. 
He places his hand upon her head. 

"Listen, my child. You say you love Charles 
Atkinson. I believe your love to be sincere. 
Through your love for him I ask you to cast aside 
all thoughts of wedding him. You ask me why? 
Because that wedding would be productive of 
naught but disgrace and shame. He comes of an 
old and proud family, while you—there is a blight 
upon your name. Ask me not to tell you. Place 
confidence in me and remember, I speak for your 
good. In after years the story of your life may be 
known, and then that husband would shrink in hor¬ 
ror at the history, the memory of which causes my 
distress. No; it must not be.” 

She feels her blood turning to ice in her veins at 
her uncle’s words. 

"Disgrace and shame—disgrace and shame.” She 
turns the words over in her brain. What can he 
mean? Suddenly she thinks—her life; she knows 
but little of it. She has a faint recollection of 
father, mother, very faint, like the memory of a 
dream. She has been told they were dead. Could 
it be possible that her uncle had referred to them? 
It must be. She knew of nothing else. She speaks 
to him in a whisper, so low he can scarcely hear it. 

"Is the story of disgrace and shame upon my par¬ 
ents’ names?” 

He does not answer. She rises. 

"It must be that,” she says. "It is your duty to 
tell me now what it is. I am no longer a child. I 


232 


cAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


am a woman, with a woman’s heart. That heart 
is breaking. It is better that I should know the 
truth; it can affect me but little more than the allu¬ 
sion to it that you have made. Oh! Uncle John. 
You have crushed my heart.” 

She sinks into a chair near by; she awaits his an¬ 
swer with a dumb feeling of anguish at her heart. 
He is weeping, the tears are coursing down his 
wrinkled cheeks. He knows that what she asks is 
but right; but he cannot tell her. He rises from 
his chair and comes to her. 

“My darling; light of my old age: What you ask 
is impossible. If I were but to breathe the terrible 
story you would be stricken dead before my eyes. I 
feel it. You could not live under the burden of 
shame. Press me not. I am old and weak. I have 
lived for years with the knowledge I possess locked 
in the innermost recesses of my heart. 1 cannot 
give it up. Your sad face, saddened by me, touches 
my soul. I cannot bear to look upon it. Retire, 
my child, and pray heaven to blot out from your’ 
memory the thought of that love that cannot be 
gratified. Good night. Do not cast blame upon me. 

I am acting for the best.” 

He kisses her brow, and leaves her. Leaves her 
to cast herself upon the floor, and call upon heaven 
to rob her of life and memory; to remove from her 
heart the anguish that fills it to bursting. 


FILE OF OLD NEWSPAPERS 


2 33 


CHAPTER XXXII 

FILE OF OLD NEWSPAPERS 

For an hour she lies upon the soft carpet. For 
an hour, weeping. For an hour wishing in her heart 
that she will never arise. Then she recovers. She 
rises to her feet, and brushes the waving masses of 
hair from her face. Ebon hair which has become 
unconfined as she struggles alone with her anguish. 
She has decided what course to pursue. She will 
carry it out to the bitter end, even if it robs her of 
reason, and breaks her heart. She has resolved to 
abide by her uncle’s advice. He must surely know 
best; but she cannot face her loved one. She can¬ 
not bear the look of pain and wonder that her cruel 
words will bring to the loving eyes. No. She will 
write him. It is so much easier to write. A sud¬ 
den resolve, a dash of the pen, the epistle dis¬ 
patched, and all is over. 

She walks to the desk, the dumb, dazed feeling 
at her heart making her hardly conscious of her ac¬ 
tion. She takes the lamp and sets it upon the leaf. 
There is no paper upon the desk, so she opens a 
small drawer at the top. It does not yield readily 
to her touch. She is obliged to exercise some little 
force. Ah ! She is successful. The drawer comes 
out, but so violent has been her effort that it comes 
out of the desk entirely. There is plenty of writing 
material there. She takes out paper and envelopes, 
and then tries to replace the drawer. Something 


234 


AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


seems to interfere. What is that? She puts her^ 
hand in to remove the obstacle, and finds it is the 
edge of a newspaper that has become fastened in 
the groove. She takes it out, and finds there are 
more of them. A vague feeling of curiosity takes 
possession of her soul. She is a woman. Women 
are ever curious. She takes out the papers, one by 
one. They are old ones. Sixteen years old. What 
is there about these papers that they should be 
hidden in the back of an old desk, and kept for so 
long? She looks over one. Why does not that 
uncle, who has hidden them, come and prevent her 
reading them? 

But no. No one comes, and she unfolds the 
paper and stands staring at a startling headline, 
marked with ink. Startling, indeed, for a young, 
innocent girl to read. 

“MARRIED TO HIS OWN MOTHER!!!” 

That is what she reads. 

’‘Married to his own mother!” She repeats the 
words in a whisper. Then from her heart comes a 
great feeling of pity for such an unfortunate one. 
She slowly reads the first paper through. It relates 
the meeting and marriage of Albert Andrews and 
Frances Norton. It follows out the story of their 
lives; tells of the horrible discovery of the relation¬ 
ship existing between them, She reads it through, 
not quite understanding it. It seems so impossible 
to her mind. She cannot conceive it. “Why are 
these papers hidden?” she asks herself, She reads 


A FILE OF OLD NEWSPAPERS 


2 35 


the next. It contains an account of the sickness of 
the wife and mother; speaks of the two little chil¬ 
dren—two little girls. Still, she cannot understand 
it. The next, and the truth is known. It speaks 
of her uncle, John Barton; of his arrival in Amer¬ 
ica, and taking charge of the two little girls. She, 
Rose, is one of the two. She stares at the paper 
with eyes that seem to start from their sockets. It 
all comes to her like a flash. She understands it 
all now. Disgrace and shame—aye, greater than 
mind can conceive. She does not faint; her head 
is reeling; she can feel her heart throbbing vio¬ 
lently. It would be a relief if it would cease. 
“Yes. Uncle John was right. The marriage could 
never take place. The proud, noble name of the 
Atkinsons shall not be stained. Oh, it is horrible.” 
For the first time the girl weeps, since discovering 
the secret. She weeps, the crystal tears bedewing 
me musty old paper that tells her upon the night of 
the day of her greatest happiness, that she is not fit 
to associate with the world. It is not her fault; 
yet the Christian world will curl their haughty lips, 
and draw closer to them their snowy skirts, for fear 
of contamination. Not her fault. She is innocent; 
but the crime of the parents must be visited upon 
her head. Divine law, that one must suffer for the 
other. This is Christianity. But are the parents 
guilcy? She has not finished reading; there are two 
more papers to read. She looks over the first. It 
speaks of the confinement of the bereaved woman in 


236 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


the asylum, where she has spent so many years in 
her early life. 

“Hopelessly insane,” the paper says. “She will 
never come forth from the gloomy walls in posses¬ 
sion of her senses.” 

It is her mother she reads about; she understands 
that; her mother, the loving mother who bore un¬ 
told pain, that she should be born to live, to suffer 
in the years to come—and her father? She shud¬ 
ders. She has no father; she is illegitimate. 
Great God ! but the thought is maddening. In one 
of the papers she reads of the unhappy man leav¬ 
ing his country behind him forever. She pities him 
as she reads. In the last paper she reads of the 
death of the mother, dying in maniacal convulsions; 
raving alone in her cell. She also reads of the 
death of kind Isaac Warden. She throws the paper 
from her, overcome with horror; she falls in the 
nearest chair. What can she do? She cannot face 
Charley Atkinson again. She would sink before him 
in her shame. Uncle John was right. It would 
have been better if she had never known this; but 
accident has revealed what the kind, old man would 
have kept hidden. The hours creep on. It is past 
midnight, and still the soft lamplight shines on the 
bowed head, the flowing hair, fhe rounded form of 
the girl, who sits crushed and broken within the 
circle of light it throws. 

Suddenly she rises from her recumbent position. 
She has been thinking—thinking deeply. She has 
come to a desperate conclusion. She hurries to the 


*A FILE OF OLD NEWSPAPERS 237 

desk, and arranging the materials before her, writes 

one short note, which she seals; then another. 
She carefully replaces the old file of newspapers, 
the discovery of which has changed the whole 
course of her life. She replaces the drawer, and 
leaving the two missives lying upon the open desk, 
she blows out the light, and noiselessly creeps up 
the stairs to the apartment shared alike by herself 
and her sister. Her sister—darling, impetuous, 
self-willed Lilia. The blow will be a hard one for 
you, child. Need she know it? Of what use will 
it be to wreck her young life by a knowledge of this 
horror? No. She shall not know it. At least from 
the lips of the sister who loves her. She is sleep¬ 
ing, as the half-crazed girl enters; sleeping, with 
one rounded, white arm beneath her golden head; 
the other is lying out upon the counterpane. She 
is smiling in her sleep. How soon will that smile 
change when she hears what the sister has to tell 
her! Not the secret. No—no! not that; but some¬ 
thing else. 

She does not waken her yet; she busies herself in 
packing into a valise several articles of clothing, 
plain clothing. She will not need anything beauti¬ 
ful. She is going where it will not be of use. Be¬ 
sides, she has not room in her valise. She soon 
finishes the preparations for departure. She ar¬ 
ranges her hair, and dons her plainest hat; then she 
gently arouses the sleeping one. 

A few grumbling remonstrances, and Lilia opens 
her eyes. 


238 *AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

She is startled at the appearance of Rose. Rose, 
standing by her bedside, clad in black, which ap¬ 
pears more sombre than ever in the faint light of 
the night lamp. 

"Why, Rose; how you frightened me,” she mur¬ 
murs. 

"Did I, darling? I am sorry.” 

"What are you doing, dressed at this time of 
night? Where are you going?" 

"Going to leave this place forever." 

Lilia sits up straight in bed at this announcement. 
Amazement stills her tongue for the instant; but not 
for long. She is a perfect woman; she cannot re¬ 
main silent long. 

"Forever!” she repeats. "What do you mean?” 
"Lilia, dear; I have this night made discoveries 
that make it impossible for me to remain here 
longer. I am going out into the world to try and 
be forgotten. I have not the courage to end my 
life. I am too much of a Christian to think of such 
a thing, or I should do so. I cannot explain to you 
what it is I know. Perhaps in years to come you 
may know. I am going away, darling. I come to 
bid you farewell.” The gentle voice breaks; she is 
weeping. 

Lilia is thoroughly awake by this time. She can¬ 
not comprehend the meaning of her sister’s words. 
She sits and stares blankly at her. Suddenly she 

says: 

"And will Uncle John allow you to go?” 


*A FILE OF OLD NEWSPAPERS 239 


"He does not know it; I will be far away when 
he discovers it.” 

“And Charley?” 

Fresh sobs, that rack the delicate frame. 

“It is through him that I am going.” 

A flash of anger crosses the young girl’s beautiful 
face 

“Has he dared to insult you; dared to say or do 
anything that would cause you unhappiness?” 

“No, dear. He is the soul of honor. He loves 
me. Don’t ask me to explain. I cannot; my rea 
sons for going can be known only to myself. Kiss 
me, darling, my own sweet sister. I must not de¬ 
lay. Kiss me, and let me go.” 

To her surprise, the ruddy haired sister arises 
from her bed. She says not one word, but hastens 
to dress. She also puts on a plain dark costume. 
She has a look of determination upon her sweet, 
young face. 

“What are you doing?” cries Rose in alarm. 

Lilia turns and looks at her. 

“You are going away?” she asks. 

“Yes.” 

“You are my sister?" 

“Yes.” What was coming? 

“I love you. You are all I have. I am going 
with you.” 

"No—no, dear. You are better off here. You 
have some one to love you. Your life is before 
you. You shall not sacrifice yourself. ” 

“Rose Barton. This morning you were happy, 


240 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


satisfied; with all you claim for me in your own pos¬ 
session. You have told me that some discovery made 
since that time compels you to leave behind you all 
this. If this discovery affects you, it concerns me, 
and if you go, I go with you." 

She is determined. 

“But Lilia—” 

“I am resolved. If you refuse to allow me to 
share your secret you shall not refuse me the privi 
lege of sharing your future life. If you protest, I 
shall arouse Uncle John and tell him all. I am 
going.” 

Rose has not expected this. After all it may be 
for the best. She loves her younger sister, and 
with her to share her lot, she will be happier. So 
she agrees, and a small trunk is packed in place of 
the valise. The clocks in the house strike two as 
they finish, and then, with stealthy footsteps, these 
two young creatures creep down the stairs, each 
carrying one end of the trunk. They unfasten the 
door in the rear of the house, and make their way 
to the stables. Their favorite horse neighs gently 
as they enter; he recognizes his young mistresses. 
They harness him to a light wagon, and lifting the 
trunk in behind them, they drive off in the early 
morning in the first pale rays of coming day, five 
miles, to the nearest station. They are acquainted 
with the agent. Rose tells him they are going on 
a visit to a friend in the city, and asks him to re¬ 
turn the horse to their uncle. He agrees; the tick¬ 
ets are purchased, and in an hour they are speeding 


THE DISCOVERY OF THE FLIGHT 241 

toward the distant city of Chicago, leaving behind 
them loving care, luxury, and aching hearts. Be¬ 
fore them is an unknown future, the cold, unsympa¬ 
thetic world, the dangers that beset the pathways 
of innocence. 

The horse neighs .his farewell as they mount the 
train. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

THE DISCOVERY OF THE FLIGHT 

Charles Atkinson, Esq., was not usually an early 
riser. He preferred the dreamy repose of the morn¬ 
ing to the long walks and fresh air that we are told 
are conducive to good health and long life. His 
views upon the saying regarding the early bird and 
the worm were not flattering to the worm, whom he 
looked upon as a foolish creeping thing, to be out so 
early to furnish a meal for the feathered enemy. But 
this particular morning he was out, strolling in the 
woods before six o’clock. Reason? Because he could 
not sleep. The long night had been passed in think¬ 
ing of pretty Rose Barton; when he managed to doze 
off, her smiling face appeared to him and he found 
himself waking with her name upon his lips; and 
so, after tossing upon his bed, smoking numerous 
cigars, and trying every method of producing som¬ 
nolency that he had ever heard of, he arose, dressed 
himself and was out upon the lawn by early morn¬ 
ing. From there he strolled into the wood, and 

An Unconscious Crime 16 



242 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


there heard the horn blow which summoned the 
laboring farm hands to their early meal. He felt 
slightly hungry, and knowing that his own break¬ 
fast would not be ready for two hours at least, 
determined to partake of that meal with the la¬ 
borers. 

They made room for him at the well-filled table, 
as he entered the kitchen and expressed his determ¬ 
ination, and he enjoyed the meal more than any he 
had eaten for years. 

He lit a cigar and slowly walked toward the resi¬ 
dence of John Barton, not over one half mile from 
his own. 

“I suppose it’s rather early,” he muttered, as he 
climbed a rail fence. “But she told me she would 
give me her answer this morning; and I want to be 
there when she arises. Sweet Rose; how happy we 
will be.” 

A negro was sweeping the veranda as he walked 
up the gravel walk. It is our old friend, Jupiter, 
looking but little older than when we saw him last. 
Negroes seem to never grow old, and when they do, 
it is usually all at one time. Jupiter looked about 
the same as he did twenty years before. He sees 
and recognizes the young man, and drops his 
broom in amazement. 

”Fo’ de Lord’s sake, Mister Charley; what am 
you doin’ yeah, at dis time in de mo’nin’?” 

"Why, it is nearly seven o’clock, Jup. Do you 
think I sleep all day?” 

"Dunno, sah. You gen’ly gits ’round yeah ’bout 


THE DISCOVERY OR THE FLIGHT 243 


noon. You is too early dis mo’nin’, sah. None of 
de folks am up yit. ” 

“Oh, I’m in no hurry. I’ll smoke awhile and 
wait until they arise.” So he sits down upon the 
veranda. 

“Ah 1 this glorious morning air is well worth an 
early rising to obtain.” 

“Don’t think you gits much of it, Mister Charley,” 
and Jupiter displays his white teeth. “Your man 
Jack done tole me you sleeps till nine o’clock.” 

“Did; eh?” 

“Yes, sah.” 

“Jack had better mind his own business.” 

■ Lazily stretching out his legs, he smokes, watch¬ 
ing the blue clouds as they ascend to the trees, and 
seeing in them Rose’s sweet face. 

Jupiter finishes his sweeping. 

“’Scuse me, sah;” he says, drawing near, “but I 
must go see to de Ole man’s desires. He will be 
ringin’ for his hot water soon; you kin stay yeah. 
I’ll tell de boss you are waitin’ to see him, jist as 
soon as he gits up.” 

“And Miss Rose,” adds Charley. 

A broad grin spread over Jupiter’s face. 

“Cert’inly, Miss Rose,” he repeats, and then he 
is gone. 

For an hour the young man sat and smoked. 
The time passed slowly to him, and seemed much 
longer than it really was. 

“They are deucedly late risers here,” he muttered, 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


U4 

looking at his watch. “Phew! Eight o’clock. 
Guess Jup forgot I was here." 

So he made three strides that brought him to 
the door. Just as he starts to ring the bell it 
opens and he starts back in surprise, as he sees 
Jupiter’s scared face before him. 

“Have you seen ’em?" he cries. 

“Who?" asked Charley, in wonder. 

“De gals—Miss Rose and Miss Lilia." 

“What are you talking about?" 

“Dey is gone, Mister Charley; gone, and lef’ no 
word.” 

Gone! Left no word! What could this mean? 

With a cry of startled surprise the young man 
pushed the servant to one side, and entered the 
house. John Barton was sitting before the table 
spread for breakfast, with his white head bending 
in grief. 

“What is this Jupiter tells me?" eagerly cried the 
young man. 

John Barton looks up, he sees the young lover. 

“Ah, Mr. Atkinson; I am glad you have come. 
Have you seen them? They have been to your 
house for an early walk, have they not? Tell me. 
Don’t keep me in suspense!" And the old man 
fairly foams in his excitement and despair. 

“I have not seen your nieces, sir.” 

John Barton turns from him with a gesture of 
.despair. 

“Jupiter tells me they are not here." 

“No—no. They have gone. I went myself to the 


THE DISCOVERY OF THE FLIGHT 


245 


room where they slept. I knocked. No answer. I 
opened the door, and found the room empty. I 
thought nothing of it then, for I thought they had 
gone out for a walk; but they did not return. They 
have left me. Rose has gone and taken her sister 
with her.” 

It is a pitiful sight to see this old man moaning in 
his agony. His wife enters the room; she tries to 
soothe him. Her efforts are unavailing. 

To the young man this is a bitter blow. He can¬ 
not realize it. There must be some mistake. 

“What reason could she have had to do as you 
say?” he asks the grief-stricken man before him. 
He does not answer. He is reproaching himself. 
He remembers his words of the night before. 

At this moment Jupiter enters the room. His 
sable face is grave and worried. He has seen much 
trouble in this family. Is this a continuation of the 
fatality that has followed them? He has two letters 
in his hands. 

“I found dese on de libr’iy desk,” he says. 

The bereaved relative takes the missives.—Rose’s 
farewell. 

“One for me; one for you," he mutters, looking at 
the superscription. “They were written by Rose." 

With trembling hands the lover tears open the 
envelope. He reads the written words. They are 
like coals of fire to his heart. 

“Dear Charley: I should not call you this, for 
you will say my actions will not appear as though 
you were dear to me; but oh, heaven! I do love 


246 


e AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


you, dear. I am acting for the best, through that 
love. I shall ever love you, dear, although I can 
never wed you. Do not think me capricious. I have 
made discoveries that make it impossible. I am 
going far away. I shall never see you again. 1 
tnust not. Do not follow me, nor attempt to find 
me. My mind is made up. I can never wed you. 
Do not ask an explanation. You can never know. 
Farewell forever. Rose.” 

With an aching heart and dazed brain, he re-reads 
the words: “Farewell forever?" No. He will find 
her. He must know the reason for this strange 
conduct. The uncle has finished reading the mis¬ 
sive addressed to him. He is bending over it, a 
look of horror and despair upon his face, terrible 
to behold. This is what he has read: 

Dear Uncle John: When you receive this I 
shall be far away. Your words last night crushed 
my heart; left me, a happy girl, a miserable woman. 

I could not understand you then. I know all now. 
I have discovered the history of my unhappy parents. 
You were right. A marriage between myself and 
Mr. Atkinson would be a lasting shame upon his fair 
name. Knowing what I do, I cannot face him again. 
I have determined to put miles between us. I am 
going away. You have been a kind and loving 
friend, a father to me; but I cannot longer remain 
under your roof. I must seek a home among stran¬ 
gers, where the story of my shame is not known. 
Do not follow me; you cannot find me. Do not 
grieve for me, it is better so. 

Your broken-hearted niece, Rose. 

How he reproaches himself. How this old man 
near the grave, condemns his action; but he must 
find her. This innocent girl, unused to the ways 
pf the world, must not be permitted to sacrifice her 


THE ‘DISCOVER Y OF THE FLIGHT 247 

young life, and the other, the sister, she is not so 
old. It will be worse for her. 

"What are you going to do?" It is the voice 
of the lover. 

“What does she say to you?” asks the old man. 

The young man silently hands him the note. 
John Barton reads it. A groan bursts from his lips, 
as he comprehends its meaning. He silently hands 
the note to its owner. 

“Can you explain this?” asks the lover. 

I can; but you can never know. ” 

“Can never know? and why? She was my affi¬ 
anced wife. She was to have given me her answer 
this morning. I came for it, and find only this 
note. Only sorrow. She was to have asked your 
consent. Did she speak to you?” 

“Yes." 

“And you?” 

“I refused to give it.” 

“Refused to give it!” A flush of anger reddens 
the young man’s face. 

“Why?” 

John Barton turns upon him desperately. 

“I cannot give you my reasons. Does not her let¬ 
ter say she cannot wed you? Do you not think that 
a reason sufficient to drive this young creature out 
into the world, far from love and tender care, is 
grave enough to cause the thought of marriage to 
her mind to appear as something impossible? You 
do not know. You never can. Do not press me/' 


248 zAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

A determined light shone from Charles Atkin¬ 
son’s eyes. 

“I must confess that this is an unprecedented 
occurrence; and I refuse to be thus thrust aside 
unsatisfied. I believe Rose loves me, and through 
some action on your part has taken this step. Now, 
listen to me. I shall take immediate steps to find 
her. I shall scour this broad land. She is mine by 
the divine right of love. She shall be my wife. No 
matter what her reasons are, no matter what stands 
in the way, she shall be my wife.” 

The old man slowly rises. He looks the other in 
the face. 

‘‘Charles Atkinson." The voice is firm. ‘‘You 
are young. You are fired by your great love. Lis¬ 
ten to me. Do not try to force that girl into a 
marriage, for I tell you that in years to come, if you 
were to discover all, you would turn from her in 
horror; your love would die an immediate death. I 
told her this last night. She could not understand 
it then; but in some manner she has discovered my 
reasons for refusing consent, and she admits I am 
right. She loves you. She has gone from you, lest 
that love should bring you sorrow—cast a blight up¬ 
on your honorable name.” 

‘‘And suppose I say I am willing to accept her in 
spite of everything; willing to take her to my heart 
and make her my wife?" 

‘‘You do not know— you do not know. 

‘‘Why not tell mo all, and then allow me to de-i 
cide?” 


THE DISCOVERY OF THE FLIGHT 249 

A look of pain and horror came to the old man’s 
face. 

N° no, he cried. “That can never be.” 

The young man turned from him, with a gesture 
of impatience. 

"So be it,” he muttered in a tone of determina- 
tion, and started to leave the room. 

The old man steps before him. 

“What are you going to do?” 

You refuse to share your confidence with me. 
Why should I answer you?” 

“Listen to me, Charles. We are both afflicted. 

I love this girl and her young sister as a relative. I 
have seen them grow in beauty and womanhood 
before my eyes. You love Rose, as a lover. You 
are young and impetuous. It is right that I should 
know what you contemplate. If it is to search for 
them, I will assist you; yes, accompany you, do 
all in my power to bring my darlings back to me, 
your love, to you.” 

“And yet you refused your consent to our mar¬ 
riage?” 

“I thought it best. She knows all now. If she, 
in the face of her knowledge, accepts you as her 
husband, then I shall not say nay. ” 

The young man seized his hand in a hearty 
clasp. 

“We will find her!” he cried. 

“We will work together.” 

The door opened at this juncture, admitting 
Jupiter. 


25 o tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

“De man from de depot has jist come wid de hoss 
an’ wagin dat de gals druv to de station." 

Both the men started. 

“Horse and wagon!” they cried. 

'Yes, sir,” and the depot master entered. “The 
ladies left them in my care to return to you. They 
said they were going to visit friends in Chicago. A 
long visit I took it to be, for they carried a trunk. ” 

“Did they purchase tickets to Chicago?" 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then we will find them." 

Vouchsafing no answer to the man’s look of in¬ 
quiry they made immediate preparation to follow 
the fugitives; and the next train bore John Barton, 
Charles Atkinson, and the faithful Jupiter toward 
the distant city, where the young girls had gone. 

Old Mrs. Barton bade them God speed, as she 
stood upon the station platform; and returned to 
the desolate house, to await the return of her hus¬ 
band, and the objects of his search. “Pray heaven 
that they may be successful!” she murmured, as 
she started upon her journey home. 

Pray heaven, indeed. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

ALONE IN A GREAT CITY 

It was not yet light when the train, bearing Rose 
and Lilia, rolled into the Union depot in Chicago. 
They had ridden, all the long, warm day, and the 
longer night, refusing themselves the luxury of a 
sleeper, for fear of expending the money, of which 



« 4LONE IN .A GREA T CITY 


2 5 I 


they had but little. They followed the passengers, 
and were soon standing upon the platform; then for 
the first time came to Rose that terrible feeling, of 
being a stranger in a strange land, with no place to 
go, no friend to appeal to for guidance. She had 
never been in Chicago before, and never alone in any 
large city; and so now, as she stands upon the nearly 
deserted platform, with her sister clinging to her 
arm, she feels indeed her helplessness, and half re¬ 
grets her action. 

“I have money enough to return,” she murmured 
to herself. ‘‘Why not take the next train?" But 
then before her mind’s eye came the face of her 
lover, Charles Atkinson, looking at her, with re¬ 
proach in his eyes, and she drew herself together, 
determined that he must never see her more. 

"Come, sister,” she whispered, and led the way 
along the platform, then up the steps to the crowded 
lobby, then out on the street. 

"Hack! carriage! hansom!”came the bedlam of 
voices to the young girls’ ears, as the ever anxious 
"Jehus” thrust their long whips forward to attract 
the attention of some one of the hurrrying crowd, 
hoping to secure them as a fare. "Omnibus, Miss,” 
and one of Parmelee’s gentlemanly agents came 
forward. But the girls passed them, and stood a 
little to one side, hoping the crowd would soon 
pass on, and then they could inquire of some one of 
the hack drivers as to a quiet hotel or cheap board¬ 
ing house, where they could stop until they could 
find some kind of employment. Rose was a skilful 


252 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


embroiderer, and a neat seamstress. She made all 
her own under-garments, and besides, had a good 
idea of drawing and painting, and thought with all 
her accomplishments she would find it compara¬ 
tively easy to obtain lucrative employment. She 
did not know, poor girl, that there are hundreds 
of experienced women in a large city, who are 
equally as well taught, who find it hard struggling 
to make both ends meet. She had this to learn. 

They waited for an hour, and still the crowd re¬ 
mained as dense as ever. Many people find their 
way to the Union Depot. 

"I am growing very hungry, Rose,” murmured 
Lilia. 

The words of her sister reminded her that she, 
too, was in need of food; but she determined to wait 
awhile yet, until she saw some one whose face 
seemed kindly, to ask for information. She dreaded 
to speak to any one: this timid creature, fresh from 
the green fields of the country. A flashily dressed 
young man passed them. His quick eye observed 
them, standing hesitatingly by the iron railing that 
skirts one side of the pavement. He glanced at 
them curiously, and then passed on. He did not 
proceed far, for suddenly making up his mind to 
something, he returned, and approaching the girls, 
lifted his polished silk hat and addressed them. 

"Excuse me, ladies, for addressing you; but you 
seem strangers. Are you waiting for someone?” 

Rose looked timidly up into his face. It was a 
dark, handsome face; eyes black and piercing, slight- 


*ALONE IN A GREAT CITY 


253 


ly sinister, she thought then. A black mustache, 
carefully waxed and pointed at the ends, hid a mouth 
hard and cruel; but the smile that caused the sens¬ 
ual lips to part, displaying the even, white teeth, 
disguised the cruelty which was apparent in repose, 
and made him appear more kindly. A fashionably 
cut suit of clothing of a loud pattern gave him a 
prominent appearance, and the silk hat, a miracle 
of brightness, which he held in his hand at the mo¬ 
ment of speaking to the girls, was of the latest 
shape. A huge “solitaire” blazed in his shirt front 
of dazzling whiteness, and another glittered from 
the little finger of his left hand. Somehow, a feel¬ 
ing of mistrust took possession of the girl’s heart, 
as she observed the dress and general appearance of 
the man, and she would have turned from him with 
a cold reply, had not Lilia, who had evidently been 
impressed by his glittering appearance, answered 
his question. 

“No, sir," she replied, in her sweet, girlish voice. 
"We are strangers here.” 

“Ah, strangers!” and a look of sudden interest 
came to the black eyes, 

“Yes,” continued Lilia. “We were waiting to 
see if some one could not direct us to a hotel or 
lodging house.” 

“Lilia,” cried Rose, remonstrating. 

“You need not fear to make me your confidant, 
Miss,” the stranger said quickly, addressing Rose. 
“In fact, it is a good thing for you that I happened 
to be passing and spoke to you. I can be of great 


*54 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


assistance to you. I can direct you to the very 
place you wish to go, providing, of course, you de¬ 
sire it.” 

“This is very kind of you,” cried Lilia. “I am 
sure we appreciate your offer; don’t we, Rose?” 

“The gentleman is very kind,” answered Rose, 
hesitatingly. She does not feel easy in her mind. 

The stranger observed it. With an easy move¬ 
ment he drew from his pocket a card case. 

“Pardon me for not introducing myself,” he cried. 

“I felt so interested in you that I forgot myself,” 
and he proffered a card to Rose. 

She glanced at it. 

“T. Smith Chatwood,” was the name it bore. 

“I am an agent for the working girls’ home," he 
announced. “Of course you know in all the large 
cities there are hundreds of young girls, intelligent 
and gifted, who find it hard to make an honest liv¬ 
ing and even if they are successful, they are obliged 
to pay exorbitant prices for board and lodging. So, 
a few years ago, a number of good people formed 
themselves into a company and established a home, 
where girls can obtain good board and have all the 
comforts of a home; and besides, possess the advan 
tage of intercourse among persons of refinement, 
among whom they stand a better chance of obtain¬ 
ing well paying employment. 

“There are a number of agents who frequent the 
various railroad depots, on the lookout for young 
girls who have come to the city for the first time, 
and whose duty it is to try and induce them to put 


*4LONE IN A GREAT CITY 


255 


themselves under the protection of the institution. 
I am one of these agents. I am not compelled to 
work, as my income is large, and sufficient for my 
desires; but I use my leisure moments in trying to 
further the interests of this commendable undertak¬ 
ing; in trying to help along in the good work.” 

His words, smoothly spoken, quieted the fears 
which had found lodging in Rose’s heart, and she 
looked up into his face with a grateful smile. This 
is just what she wants—some quiet place where she 
can stay until she can find employment. 

"Now, if you desire, I will escort you to a nice, 
quiet restaurant where you can breakfast, and then 
conduct you to the home. What say you?” and the 
agent for the working girls’ “home,” beams upon 
them. 

"I think that is best,” murmured Rose; “and Oh, 
how can we ever thank you?” 

“Don’t mention it,” answers this good (?) man. 

A hack is called; the girls enter it, and after a 
few words of direction to the driver from the new 
found friend, they are whirled away. 

“Oh! I forgot my trunk,” suddenly cried Rose. 

“Have you the check?” 

“Yes. Here it is." 

“Give it to me. I will have your trunk brought 
to the 'Home.’" Without a feeling of doubt, the 
girl gave him her check, and he carefully placed 
it in his pocket-book. They breakfasted in a quiet, 
unassuming restaurant, the stranger insisting upon 
paying for it, despite the remonstrance of Rose. 


556 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"The company allows me the money,” he assured 
her, and she felt doubly grateful to this the agent 
of such a charitable institution. After making a good 
meal, they re-entered the hack, and were driven in 
the direction of the "Home;” so said Mr. Chatwood. 
It was fully nine o’clock when the hack stopped 
before a large, imposing building, of brown stone. 

"Here we are,” cheerfully cried Mr. Chatwood, 
and he leaped out, assisting the girls after. Rose 
noticed that several passers-by glanced at them curi- 
ously, as they ascended the wide stone steps; but 
thought nothing of it at that time. 

Their conductor rang the bell, and seemed impa¬ 
tient that it was not answered at once. 

"Guess they’re all asleep,” he muttered, giving 
the bell knob another impatient jerk. 

A slight feeling of wonder came to the girl’s mind 
at his words. It seemed strange to her that the 
residents of a home for working girls should be 
asleep at nine o’clock in the morning. Further 
thought was interrupted by the opening of the door 
by a negro servant in shabby livery. He seemed 
surprised at the appearance of the two girls and 
their escort, but said nothing, and admitted them. 

"Where is the madame?” Rose heard their friend 
say to the servant. 

"Big night, last night, sir. She is in bed." 

What could this strange answer mean? They 
were conducted into a large, magnificently furnished 
parlor. The room was in semi-darkness, but Rose 
could see that the furniture was of the most costly 







































Alone in *a great city * 57 

kind, and the walls were covered with oil paintings, 
some of them of a style that she had never seen be¬ 
fore, representing subjects hardly proper for young 
working girls to contemplate. 

Again that vague feeling of mistrust crept over her. 

Lilia had been looking about the apartment, and 
seemed delighted at what she saw. Suddenly, with 
a cry of pleasure, she darted to the corner of the 
room. She had spied a piano, and without asking, 
or even stopping to think whether it was proper or 
not, she threw open the lid and rattled off a bril¬ 
liant waltz. 

"Don’t do that, sister,” cried Rose. "They might 
not like it. ” 

"Let her enjoy herself," said a soft voice behind 
her, and a lady, (she looked such,) with grey hair 
arranged in the latest fashion, enveloped in a silk 
wrapper, came toward her. 

"Welcome to our home,” she continued, in her 
melodious voice, with a pleasant smile irradiating 
her countenance, putting an arm about the girl’s 
waist. "Mr. Chatwood has informed me that you 
are strangers in Chicago;” and she led the way to a 
soft lounge. 

"We are, Madame; strangers without friends.” 

"We must see that you find friends," replied the 
evident manager of this institution which provided 
oil paintings and pianos for poor working girls. 

Lilia had risen from the instrument upon the en¬ 
trance of the other. She now came toward her, ■ 

An Unconscious Crime ly 




25 8 zAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

"What a beautiful gill!" the woman exclaimed. 
"Are you sisters?” 

“Yes, Madam,” answered Rose. 

•’Come to me, dear." Lilia drew near. 

“Sit down beside me. Kiss me, dear. We must 
be great friends,” and Lilia nestled close to the vol¬ 
uptuous bosom of this lady,(?) apparently so kind. 

' Have you come far?” she suddenly asked. 

“Many miles. We are very tired.” 

“Then you must retire. Come. I will show you 
to your apartments, and we can have a long talk 
when you arise." 

“But what terms—” began Rose. 

“Never mind that. We will arrange everything 
after you have rested. Come;” and she led the way 
out of the parlor and up the broad staircase to the 
rooms above. They were ushered into a large 
chamber, furnished upon the same scale of magnifi¬ 
cence as the room below, and after kissing them 
both, this kind (?) patroness left them. 

With widely distended eyes Rose gazed about her. 
The carpet upon the floor was of soft velvet; the 
furniture of the richest kind; lace curtains hung 
at the windows, and everywhere was the evidence 
of wealth; not refinement, for the engravings and 
paintings were of a lewd character, and their appear¬ 
ance oppressed the delicate refined girl. 

Lilia had seemed to accept it all as a matter of 
course, and was disrobing as fast as she could, so 
Rose, with a sigh, prepared to follow her example, 
and soon both of these innocent ones were sleep- 


THE HOME FOR WORKING GI%LS *59 

ing soundly, while below, Mr. T. Smith Chatwood 
conversed earnestly with the lady of the grey hair, 
and, to judge from his actions, was highly pleased 
with his good, Christian work of the morning. 


CHAPTER XXXV 

THE HOME FOR WORKING GIRLS 

A gentle tap upon the door aroused Rose from her 
profound slumber. At first she thought she was in 
her little room in her uncle’s house; but a glance at 
the surroundings soon undeceived her. A heavy feel- 
ing at her heart made her feel as though a good cry 
would do her good; but she had no time to indulge 
in this truly womanly weakness, fcr the knock was 
repeated with emphasis this time. 

She slipped on her dress and went to the door. 
It was the servant who had admitted them in the 
morning. 

You’ dinnah is ready,” he said gruffly, as she 
opened the door. 

"Very well,” she answered. "I will be ready 
soon. Will you kindly send the matron to me?” 

"De what?” cried the man, with a broad smile. 

"The lady of the house.” 

"Oh, de madame. Dunno whether she kin come 
or not; little party in the blue parlor. But I’ll 
see,” and he hurried away. 

Little party in the blue parlor! What kind of 
place is this? She looked at her watch, a present 



26 o 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


from kind Uncle John. It was nearly five o’clock. 

"Little party in the blue parlor,” she murmurs. 
"At five in the afternoon.” She cannot understand 
this. 

Going to the bed, she aroused Lilia with a kiss, 
and soon they were dressed for dinner. Their cloth¬ 
ing seemed very plain to them. They had been ac¬ 
customed to dressing for dinner in something nice 
and cool and much more elegant. Their friend of 
the morning—she of the silk wrapper and grey hair, 
entered the room as they finished dressing. 

“You sent for me,” she said in her soft tone. "I 
hope you are refreshed by your sleep,” she added, 
kissing Lilia’s beautiful face. 

"/sent for you,” answered Rose. "I wished to 
speak to you about our trunk. I gave the check to 
Mr. Chatwood. ” 

"It came some time ago. It is in the hall be¬ 
low. I will have it brought to your room, while 
you are at dinner.” 

"But we have not made any arrangements as 
yet.” 

"Never mind that. Remain here to-night and see 
how you like your home,” and she smiled covertly; 
"and when you see it as it is, we will speak of those 
things. Are you ready?” 

With a feeling of doubt, for this lady was too 
kind to an entire stranger, Rose answered that they 
were ready, and followed their conductress to the 
dining room. 

She drew back in surprise as she entered, and in- 


THE HOME FOR WORKING GIRLS 261 


voluntarily clasped her sister about the waist, with 
one arm, as if to protect her. 

The room was a large one, and gathered about 
the long table, which was literally covered with 
eatables, silver plate and china, were a score of 
women; some young, some older, all with an ex 
pression of weariness upon their faces; richly, but 
carelessly, dressed. Diamonds flashed from the 
fingers and ears of nearly all. They were eating as 
the girls entered, and loudly discussing various 
topics, which seemed strangely out of place at the 
table. Everything: garments, jewelry, all seemed 
to Rose as entirely unbefitting inmates of a home 
for working girls, who stopped there merely 
from motives of economy, and the desire to have 
a comfortable home. It was decidedly comfortable 
—in fact, elegant; but it seemed strange to Rose 
that these women, supposed to work for their live¬ 
lihood, should be robed in such garments, and be 
partaking of dinner at five o’clock. 

“Mr. Chatwood must have misrepresented matters 
to me," she thought. “I shall never be able to pay 
the price of board at this place.” 

“Be silent, girls," commanded the one who 
seemed to rule, their conductress; “and allow me 
to introduce you^ to the new arrival from the country, 
Miss Rose and Miss Lilia." They had given their 
true names inadvertently. 

“This is Miss Maud, Miss Gertie, Miss Birdie, 
Miss Cora," and so on around the table. 

The “working" girls acknowledged the introduc- 


262 


e AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


tion in a careless, heedless manner, and then con¬ 
tinued their dinner and discussion. 

“Isn’t the blonde beautiful?” Rose heard one of 
the party remark in an audible whisper to another. 

“Wonder if it’s natural,” said another. 

To the gentle mind of Rose there was something 
terrible in the loud talk, and frequent expressions 
of slang that she heard; and she ate her dinner in 
silence, determined to leave this place at once. 

“This will never do for Lilia,” she shuddered. 

The meal was finished and the two girls were 
once more conducted to their room. They found 
their trunk had been brought there during their ab¬ 
sence, and further, upon the bed lay two dresses 
of satin and lace. 

“Some one has made a mistake,” cried Rose. 
“Those do not belong to us.” 

Lilia had picked one up, and was admiring it 
with childish eagerness. 

“Is it not beautiful?” she cried. 

“Do you think so, dear?” sounded a soft voice be. 
hind them; that of the “matron” as Rose had termed 
her. “You must pardon me,” she cried effusively, 
advancing to the bed. “We are going to have a 
reception to-night, and thinking perhaps you would 
like to join in the gaieties, and might not have suit¬ 
able clothing, I took the liberty of supplying you. 
You will not take offense, I hope?" 

“You are too kind,” cried Lilia. “We will be 
pleased to join in the reception.” 

“I thought so,” purred the kind (?) one. 


THE HOME F 0 % WORKING GIRLS 263 


"But Lilia, we must be out in the morning to seek 
employment. We must retire early,” remonstrated 
Rose. She dreaded this “reception.” 

“Now, Rose; don’t be hateful,” cried Lilia. “It 
won’t hurt us to enjoy ouiselves a little.” 

“No. Your sister is right. Youth is the time for 
pleasure. Make yourselves happy. We are all 
happy here.” 

Rose doubted this somewhat. The wearied faces 
at the table had not seemed happy. 

“You will go; won’t you Rose, please?” and Lilia 
placed her arm about her sister’s neck. 

“Well, if it will please you, dear,” she answered. 
Why should she try to deprive this young creature 
of enjoyment? It all seemed so strange to her; 
an inmate of the house but a few hours, and yet 
everything prepared for their pleasure. Everything 
to make them at home. 

“But what will it cost in the end?” she thought. 

Better not think of that, my poor, deluded girl. 
The cost will be greater than you anticipate. She 
who had been termed the madame first by Mr. Chat- 
wood, again by the servant, assisted Lilia to dress. 
She seemed greatly attracted by the girl’s fresh, 
young beauty, and took great pains to make her as 
attractive as possible. Rose silently robed herself 
in the costly dress, and found to her horror that, 
although it was strictly what is known as evening 
dress, it was rather more of an “undress” than she 
had ever worn before; being cut decidedly low, ex- 


264 


UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


posing the arms and shoulders much more than her 
refined nature thought proper. 

"I hardly care to appear before strangers in this 
costume,” she said doubtfully to the "madame,” who 
by this time was putting the finishing touches to 
Lilia’s toilet. 

“And why not, dear?” 

“It seems rather bold; it exposes my arms and—” 
she hesitated. 

The woman laughed. 

“That is fashionable,” she cried. "You will find 
all the ladies dressed in the same manner.” 

“I would prefer a lace shawl, or something to 
wrap about me.” 

“And conceal those magnificent arms, and shoul¬ 
ders? That would be cruel. Do not think of such 
a thing. Probably you are not accustomed to the 
ways of the fashionable world. All our great ladies 
dress in the same manner. See how beautiful your 
sister looks.” 

With a sigh Rose gazed upon beautiful Lilia. 
Yes; she was indeed beautiful. The dress showed 
forth her beauty to great advantage. Rather more 
than the simple girl liked; but the lady was so 
kind, and seemed to consider it good taste, and 
the fashionable world all dressed in the same man¬ 
ner; and so, not without some qualms of conscience, 
she accepted it as proper, and was soon ready to form 
a part of the “reception.” 

It was now nearly eight o’clock, and numerous 
rings at the door bell announced that the guests 


THE HOME FOR IV 0 T{KING GIRLS 265 

must be arriving; so the lady of the house, herself 
not being ready as yet, left them, telling them that 
she would return for them soon. 

The door had no sooner closed upon her than 
Rose clasped her sister about the neck. 

"We must not remain here, dear,” she cried. 
‘T have a feeling as if something horrible were go¬ 
ing to happen. All this elegance is not befitting a 
simple home for working girls. We must find 
some other place.” 

The young girl looked at her in innocent sur¬ 
prise. 

"Why, Rose, I think it a very nice place. I am 
sure the lady is very kind to try and make us feel 
at home. You are homesick.” 

Ah! perhaps that was it. Homesick; that must 
be it; and Oh, how the sad young heart yearned 
for that peaceful home beside the rippling lake! 
How she longed for the sight of Uncle John’s aged, 
kindly face; her aunt’s motherly counsel, and good 
night kiss! How her heart ached for that lover, 
whom she had determined she must never see again ! 
All: everything she had left came vividly to her 
mind, as she stood robed in satin and lace, with 
the yellow light of the gas shining upon her pol¬ 
ished arms and shoulders, waiting to be conducted 
to an assemblage of people she dreaded to meet; 
to mix and associate with women she felt were 
not what she had been told. In her misery she 
wept. 

"Why do you cry?" her sister’s voice. 


266 


cAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"Oh, Lilia; I miss the old home so much. Is 
not your heart heavy?" 

"Why, of course I miss the old home; but we 
have left it, Rose. We must make the most of our 
situation. I think we will be happy here. If you 
feel so badly, why did you not think before you 
left it? If you love the old home why did you 
leave it?" 

"My God; why did I leave it?" and then the 
memory of her discovery came to her, and she 
choked the flowing tears, determined to live as 
she had started, away from all who knew her. The 
words of Lilia caused her heart to sink. They were 
careless and cold. Her heart was not as tender as 
her own. She was better fitted to battle with the 
world. She did not regret leaving behind her all 
that was dear. She looked forward only to a new 
life of gaiety, and forgetfulness. She sighed as this 
came to her. Sighed that her darling sister was 
not as she; was indifferent to what the future might 
bring. 

We are not all alike in this world; mankind is con¬ 
stituted peculiarly at variance one with the other. 
Some are loving and tender; others harsh and cruel. 
Misfortune bows down some to the earth, leaving 
them crushed forever, never to rise again; others, 
like the "Phoenix,” arise from the ashes of their 
destruction, and soar again above all. 

It is well that we are not all alike. 

Divine Providence is wise. 


THE RECEPTION 


267 


CHAPTER XXXVI 

THE RECEPTION 

Loud laughter, boisterous exclamations, the sound 
of some one banging on the piano, came floating up 
the stairs to the room where the two girls stood 
waiting. 

Then some one began to sing; that is, made an 
attempt which was a decided failure, as far as music 
was concerned, and at that moment the lady of the 
house entered, and offered to escort them down¬ 
stairs. She was dressed in most magnificent style, 
her dress being decidedly “decollette. ” From every 
finger flashed sparkling diamonds, the same precious 
gems forming a tiara for her hair and jewels for her 
ears. 

A burst of admiration from Lilia as she entered, 
and a sickening feeling of surprise in Rose’s heart. 

“Now, dears, we are all ready. Don’t feel shy 
and backward; enjoy yourselves and remember 
this is ‘Liberty Hall.’ You can do as you please.” 

This she added significantly. Fresh mystery for 
Rose. 

A tap on the door. “Entrez,” in French. 

One of the 'working girls,” dressed in shimmer¬ 
ing satin, also fashionably cut. 

“Well, Maud," rather sternly. “You knew I was 
engaged. ” 

“Yes, Madame; but I wished to see you—very 

important. * ” 


268 


t/lN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


A whispered conversation. ( 

"Not much politeness," thought Rose. 

"Ah,” the lady says. "I am glad you told 
me. He is very particular. Thank you, Maud. 
I will be down at once," and Maud left the room, 
carelessly humming the fragment of a popular 
song. 

"I am so glad, my dears," murmurs their patron¬ 
ess, turning to the girls. "I have just been informed 
that General Markham and a particular friend have 
just arrived. They are both such nice gentlemen, 
they will be pleased to meet you, and I know you 
will like them. The general is getting along in 
years somewhat, but he is so kind, and fatherly. 
He will look out for you this evening. I will in¬ 
troduce you. I am so glad he has come;" and she 
puts a few deft finishing touches to Lilia’s toilet. 

Rose feels slightly easier in her mind to hear 
that a distinguished gentleman, a general in the 
army, probably retired, will be her escort. Re¬ 
lieved because he is "getting along in years." He 
will be kind and fatherly to her, she thinks. She 
dreads meeting any young man; so she clasps her 
sister about the waist and follows the lady down 
stairs. The noise and confusion becomes more ap¬ 
parent as they draw nearer the parlor, and as they 
pass the large folding doors two young men, dressed 
in the height of fashion, suddenly throw them open 
and burst into the hall. Their faces are flushed, 
and the uncertainty of their movements indicates 
that they have been drinking. 


THE RECEPTION 269 

“Hello! new girls!” they cry, seeing Rose and 
Lilia. 

“Mr. Mortimer, I am surprised!" and the mistress 
draws herself haughtily erect. 

“Sensed? What ’bout. Been drinkin’ little— 
thatsh all. No ’fence, Madame,” and he steadies 
himself by holding on to the door knob, staring at 
the girls’ fresh young faces as he does so. 

His tainted breath causes Rose to draw back in 
horror. 

“Mr. Mortimer, you will oblige me by returning to 
the parlor. These ladies are not accustomed to such 
scenes.” 

The fellow looks up; a leering expression of sur¬ 
prise upon his flushed face; then he bursts into 
maudlin laughter. 

“Ladies! Ha! ha! Thatsh good. Hey, Gus. 
Ladies! How long have they been called so? 
Pretty good that;” and he clasps the arm of his 
companion who has been looking on the scene with 
drunken gravity, and rolls into the parlor. 

“Great heaven!” cried the innocent girl, sinking 
upon the steps. “What kind of place is this? 
Where have I been brought?” and the tears flowed 
from her eyes. 

“Never mind him, my dear,” sounds the soft voice 
in her ear. “Mr. Mortimer forgot himself. He 
meant no offense. He is an intimate friend of one 
of the ladies. He is a nice fellow; but he drinks 
a little.” 

She remembers the insulting words and rude 


270 C AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

laugh of the drunken man. "Ladies! How long 
have they been called so?” The flushed face and 
tainted breath come to her vividly. "An intimate 
friend of one of the ladies!” and do they tolerate 
such behavior here, in a respectable house? Her 
heart sinks with uncontrollable dread and fear. She 
would fly at once, taking her beautiful sister with 
her; but she cannot do so in her present garb. 

"Come, dear, the general is waiting." Ah! the 
general. He must be a gentleman, at least. Per¬ 
haps the young man is tolerated because he is of a 
good family or well known. There are plenty of 
good families who have wayward sons. “Good 
boys; but they drink a little.” So she rises and 
follows the "Madame” to where "General Markham 
and an intimate friend” are waiting. They pause 
at the polished door of an apartment at the further 
end of the hall. Sounds of merriment proceed from 
within. 

Wait here one moment,” says their conductress, 
and they are left alone together. 

"That drunken man frightened me," whispered 
Lilia, in a low tone. 

"Let us leave this place," cried Rose; and Lilia 
would have done so at the moment; but just then 
the smiling face of the woman appeared in the door 
way. 

The general is eager for an introduction," she 
cried, and the next moment they are in the room. 

It is the blue parlor; the furniture, walls, cur¬ 
tains, all being of that color. The gas burners are 


THE RECEPTION 


271 


shaded by blue glass globes, and cast a subdued 
light upon the surroundings. A small marble topped 
table occupies the centre of the room, an upright 
piano, the corner. 

"General Markham: this is Miss Lilia; Mr. Whit- 
combe, Miss Rose.” 

"Delighted to make your acquaintance,” murmurs 
Mr. Whitcombe, a pale blonde, wearing one eye 
glass. 

"Glad to see you!” shouts the general; and before 
they are aware, the two girls are separated, each 
being appropriated by the gentleman (?) she has 
been introduced to. 

General Markham is getting along in years, truly; 
but alas for the fatherly interest Rose expects. She 
sees the short, stubby form, clad in clothing much 
more befitting a much younger man; a shock of 
iron grey hair, surmounting a vulgar red face; a 
short, grizzly mustache, bending low over her 
sweet sister; and the small greenish-grey eyes gloat¬ 
ing upon her exposed beauty, and her heart sinks. 
Not much fatherly interest in that gaze; rather that 
of the wild beast about to pounce upon its helpless 
prey. 

She hears the murmur of her companion’s voice; 
she does not heed it. She thinks only of Lilia—her 
darling Lilia, in conversation with such a man. 

"’Pon honor, Miss Rose, I have been talking to 
you for five minutes, and you have not answered 
me.” It is her companion. 

"Excuse me, sir. I was—” 


272 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


‘‘Looking at the general, as though you contem¬ 
plated eating him,” interrupts Mr. Whitcombe, ad¬ 
justing his eye glass. ‘‘Better look out, General. 
My lady friend is looking terribly at you.” 

Eh, what? Oh, I was not noticing you, Whit¬ 
combe; too busy with Miss Lilia. Pretty name, 
eh? Mighty pretty girl. She tells me she can sing 
and play.” 

The ‘‘Madame" has left the room. They are 
alone with these two men. The frightened sister 
arises from the sofa and goes to Lilia. 

‘‘Come, dear; we had better retire.” Her voice is 
soft and pleading. 

Retire! Well, that’s rich,” and the general 
laughs heartily. “And just as the lady is going to 
favor us with a song! No—no. That will never 
do. You will sing for us; won’t you?” 

"We had better retire,” insists Rose. She fears 
these men. 

I promised the gentleman I would play,” replies 
Lilia, hesitatingly. 

Yes. So she did. She promised me, you know,” 
and the general looks aggrieved. So, with a sigh, 
Rose resumed her seat, and Lilia sat down to the 
piano. 

Her rich, young voice filled the apartment, and 
at the conclusion of the song both of the men ap¬ 
plauded heartily. 

"Best I ever heard," shouted the general. "Worth 
a bottle of wine." 


the reception 


273 

“We do not drink wine,” cried Rose in alarm. 

Come, Lilia; we must go now.” 

Well, if you ain’t the greatest girl I ever saw,” 
cried Mr. Whitcombe. “You havn’t been here ten 
minutes, and now you want to leave us. Your 
friend is not so anxious.” 

“She is my sister, sir.” 

Oh, sister, eh? Well, she is much more oblig¬ 
ing than you. Come, sit down and talk to me,” 
and he attempted to force her back into her seat. 

A red flush of anger came to the face of the girl. 

“You are no gentleman,” she cried. “Do not 
place your hands upon me. Come, Lilia, we must 
go.” 

“Oh, let us remain awhile yet, I don’t wish to 
go,, cries Lilia, who has been listening to the flat¬ 
tery poured into her ear by the general; and she 
likes it. Flattery is sweet to her ears. 

“Yes; stay awhile and be sensible,” repeats Mr. 
Whitcombe. 

“I will go and find the lady of the house, and in¬ 
form her. I shall leave here at once;” and Rose, 
pale and determined, goes to the door. She is 
alarmed at Lilia’s obstinacy. She fears all is 
not right, and she has made up her mind to find 
the lady, who has been so kind, and tell her 
that she thinks it best to leave the general and his 
friend, and retire for the night. She will leave 
this house in the morning. 

The general winks significantly at his friend. 

An Unconscious Crime 18 


2?4 


cAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“I will assist you to find her,” cries that worthy, 
springing after her. "It shall never be said that 
Harry Whitcombe ever allowed a lady to suffer, and 
did not try to assist her. I can see, Miss, that your 
sister’s refusal pains you, and we will find the 
"Madame" and tell her all.” 

His words sounded kindly to Rose, and she left 
the room in his company. 

They had some difficulty in finding the object of 
their search, although Mr. Whitcombe seemed zeal¬ 
ous in his endeavors. 

"She is evidently busy,” he said, coming to her 
upon the veranda, which extended around the back 
of the house; "sit down and rest awhile; really, 
you look faint and worried. Won’t you partake of 
some refreshments?” 

"A glass of water, if you please,” she murmured. 
She almost forgave his former rudeness, he seemed 
so kind now. 

He was a long time bringing the water. Sitting 
upon the rustic seat upon the veranda, Rose could 
hear the sounds of revelry within. It grated upon 
her sensitive nature. 

"I must return to Lilia,” she murmured; but at 
this moment Mr. Whitcombe returned with a tray 
and a bottle of some colored liquid, together with 
a glass. 

"The water is not very good here, Miss Rose, so 
I took the liberty of bringing you a bottle of soda. 
It is harmless and refreshing,” he added, popping 
the cork and filling the glass. 


*A HORRIBLE DISCOVERY 2■}$ 

She accepted it. It tasted sweet and cool, and 
so she drained the glass. 

I must return to my sister,” she said as she 
handed him the empty glass. “As we cannot find 
the lady in charge, I will insist upon her accom¬ 
panying me. She tries to rise; but finds her limbs 
powerless. They are numb. There is no feeling in 
Ihem. She gasps in horror, and as she feels her 
head begin to swim, she sees the smiling, cruel face 
of Whitcombe bending over her; feels his breath 
upon her face; knows that he is pressing his lips to 
her own, and she is powerless to prevent it. 

She tries to cry aloud; but her voice fails her. 
She is sinking into unconsciousness. She hears the 
sound of approaching footsteps, and as she becomes 
oblivious to her surroundings, hears a voice that 
sounds familiar, say sternly: 

I do not tolerate actions of this kind in my house. 
I thought you were a gentleman, Mr. Whitcombe.” 
And she knows no more. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 

A HORRIBLE DISCOVERY 

When Rose came to herself, she was lying upon 
the bed in her apartment, with the face of the 
lady of the house bending over her. 

She struggled to an upright position; her mind 
dazed and bewildered. For the instant she could 
not remember what had happened. Suddenly, like 
a wave, all came to her, and she wept bitterly. 



C AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


*76 

"You are better, dear;” and the soft voice sound¬ 
ed anxiously in her ear. 

“Yes; but my sister?” 

"She is all right. She is enjoying herself below.” 

Enjoying herself in the society of a man old 
enough to be her father, without one thought of her 
sister, caring naught for her. It was maddening. 
She arose from the bed. 

"How did you come to leave her?" 

Rose told her all: That she thought the society 
of the two gentlemen not proper, and wished to re¬ 
tire; that Lilia would not do so; that she had been 
searching for her; of the glass of soda. 

"You probably fainted from want of rest, and anx¬ 
iety,” miyrmured the "Madame.” "Mr. Whitcombe 
summoned me to your assistance.” 

Rose knew this to be a lie. She remembered the 
words she had heard before becoming unconscious. 
Why should this woman lie, and deliberately? 

She grew more and more alarmed. 

"I must go to her," she cried. 

"Certainly; although I think she will hardly thank 
you for interrupting her enjoyment.” 

Could this be true? Could her sweet sister, in¬ 
nocent, childish, enjoy the associations of this place? 

"I will go to her at any rate,” she cried; and 
without waiting to hear further, she opened the door 
and hurried down stairs. It was now nearly mid¬ 
night; but the sounds of gaiety were even greater 
than they had been before. She hurried past the 
parlor doors, on to the small polished entrance to 


HORRIBLE DISCOVERY 


277 


the blue parlor. Hark! what is that? Music. 
Some one singing a song which, when last she 
heard it, had been sung in the little parlor in Uncle 
John’s peaceful home. It sounded out of place 
here. It was her sister’s voice; but changed. 
What could cause this change? She turned the 
knob; she entered the room, and her heart nearly 
ceased to beat, as she witnessed the sight before 
her. Upon the table, empty champagne bottles, 
half-emptied glasses. At the piano, Lilia, her beau¬ 
tiful hair unconfined, flowing to her waist, and by 
her side the general, his red face more flushed than 
ever, his little eyes dancing from the effects of the 
wine. She grasped the back of a chair for support. 
Could this be possible? Was her darling crazed? 
Had she forgotten all claim to modesty? 

“Lilia! Lilia!” she cried in tone of anguish. 

“The general turned; the piano ceased, and with 
it the sweet voice. 

“Ah, come back, hey?” mumbled the officer. 
“What do you want?” 

“Lilia,” repeated the heart-broken sister. 

The young girl turned; her face flushed, her eyes 
dreamy and uncertain. 

“What is it, Rose?” she answered dreamily. 

Then the horrible truth flashed through her mind. 
She knew it all now, and she felt her blood turning 
to ice in her veins. 

Her darling sister had been tempted to drink of the 
wine from the bottle on the table } and she was under its 

powerful influence f 


278 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


My God! Who can picture the anguish of the 
half crazed sister? She stood like one entranced, 
gazing with horror-stricken eyes upon the sight; 
and then, with a wild cry, she sprang forward, 
throwing the general to one side, and forced Lilia 
from the piano. 

“Come,” she cried. “Come, sister. I demand 
it. You shall leave this house at once!” and then 
with sudden recollection, “Oh, God, the sins of the 
parents! Cursed in your infancy! It is but being 
visited upon you. Oh, father; Oh, my mother!” 
and the hot tears filled the beautiful, suffering eyes. 

The weak, unfortunate sister rose with difficulty. 

“You hurt me,” she cried. “You should not 
blame me; you brought me here.” 

Merciful heaven! It was true. She had been the 
cause of her coming. She was responsible for her 
sister’s actions. To her mind came the thought: 
“I urged her to remain behind. I did not wish her 
to come.” 

The words of Cain of old: “I am not my broth¬ 
er’s keeper.” 

But to her heart came the thought: “Your action 
has produced this.” 

She assisted the girl to the door, just as it 
opened, admitting the “Madame” and a score of her 
followers, among them Mr. T. Smith Chatwood, 
whose black eyes surveyed the scene. 

“What is the matter?” the smooth voice of the 
“Madame.” 

The half-crazed sister fcaces her; her large indig- 


^ HORRIBLE DISCbl/ERY 


279 


nant eyes flash their rays of righteous wrath upon 
her. 

“Matter? Look! see! Is not this enough ? My 
innocent sister, my darling, reeling from the effects 
of drink. Your wine, woman; your wine. Can you 
look upon this scene without reproach? Can you 
gaze calmly on my misery? Can you see a precious 
soul cast away, without a change of countenance?" 

All are silent. Not one of that hardened guilty 
throng can reply to the girl’s words. 

Suddenly Mr. T. Smith Chatwood mumbles: 

“It’s all right. Guess she drank the wine will¬ 
ingly enough. Nothing to make a fuss about.” 

She turns on him. She has not noticed him be¬ 
fore; but she recognizes him now, and he shrinks 
from the weak girl—strong man, hardened wretch 
that he is. He shrinks from the depths of misery 
and scorn displayed in the flashing eyes. 

“So you are here? You come to gloat over your 
work. Wretch! scoundrel! villain!! You, the gen¬ 
tleman of means, the Christian agent for a house 
for working girls! Working girls? These shame¬ 
less creatures do naught but devil’s work. Your 
work is black and corrupt like your soul. 

“Can you sleep at night after engaging in such 
hellish employment? 1 should think you would 
dread the coming of day, black bird of evil. See 
what you have done; witness your work. Were you 
well paid?" 

He does not reply. He cannot. She continues: 
"Listen all. There may be some one among you 


280 


c/W UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


whose heart is not all bad. To such a one I appeal. 
We came to this city but this morning, two inno¬ 
cent girls from the country. While waiting upon 
the sidewalk for some one to direct us to a suitable 
place to lodge, this black scoundrel saw us. His 
evil eye detected that we were strangers He ap¬ 
proached us and stated that he represented a home for 
working girls, established by Christian people, for a 
noble cause. We believed him. He seemed a gen¬ 
tleman, and we allowed ourselves to be guided by 
him. He brought us here. God knows, his object. 
He brought us here. Witness the result. Is there 
any punishment sufficiently great for such as he? 
No, I think not. Heaven alone can punish him. 
We must leave this place. I dread to think of its 
fearful character. Even now I am in ignorance. Is 
there not one gentleman among all of these I see be¬ 
fore me? Is there not one true man who will lend 
his aid to direct us aright? We cannot stay here lon¬ 
ger. The very air of this place is contaminated. 
Come. I am waiting.” 

From out of the throng steps a young man, noble 
in manner, with the light of sympathy shining from 
his eyes. 

“Allow me, Miss,” he cries. “I will guide you to 
a suitable place for the night at least.” 

Can I trust you?” The girl looks him straight in 
the eye. 

“I have a mother and sisters,” he answers. “As 
God is my judge, you can.” 

She believes him. 



IN THE LION’S DEN.—Page 277 

























































































































































































































































































*A HORRIBLE DISCOVER Y 281 

"Then let us hasten.” 

He offers his arm. Poor Lilia. She is hardly 
conscious of what is taking place. She looks upon 
it all with a silly smile. 

"It is now past midnight. The rules of my house 
do not permit of any female passing its doors after 
that hour.” The mistress speaks. 

She reckons without her host. The young man 
turns on her. 

"Then, Madame, for once your rules will be brok¬ 
en. I think you will find it for the best to say but 
little. There is law in Chicago.” 

Mr. Chatwood comes forward. "Law or no law, 
we can’t suffer our business to be interfered with.” 

"No?” very quietly. “No,” harshly. “I think you 
had better consider.” 

"We don’t need any dictation from you. No mat¬ 
ter who you are. ” 

"Come, Miss.” The stranger endeavors to force his 
way through. 

You heard what I said?” and Chatwood intercepts 
him. 

"Stand out of my way,” quietly. 

“I’ll see y° u ^ h —1 first.” A quick movement, 
and upon the stranger’s lapel shines an ornament 
of peculiar style. A small gold star, enclosed in a 
circle, and the words: "Pinkerton Detective,” 
gleams in Mr. Chatwood’s eyes. He falls back. 

"I thought you would allow me to pass,” remarked 
the stranger, and he made his way through the 
throng. 




282 


e/W UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


The sight of that small ornament caused a chill to 
run through all those who saw it. They knew its 
power. Carefully, tenderly, Rose assisted her sister 
up the stairs to the room above. The hateful gar¬ 
ments were soon removed and once more they 
donned the costume they had worn from home. 
Then they hastened to where the stranger was await¬ 
ing them. A hack stood at the door. He had called 
it while awaiting their coming. The driver carried 
the little trunk down the stairs and lifted it upon 
the box, and then, as the clocks struck two, they 
were driven rapidly away. None of the inmates or 
guests were to be seen as they left the house. They 
thought it best to keep secluded. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 

ALAS FOR THE RARITY OF CHRISTIAN CHARITY 

The wheels sounded heavy and dead as the car¬ 
riage rolled along. Lilia had fallen asleep and her 
deep regular breathing signified that she was sleep¬ 
ing soundly. 

The young stranger sat silent and thoughtful on 
the opposite seat. 

He was indeed thinking deeply. 

Rose, also occupied with her own thoughts, 
thoughts of remorse and bitter sorrow, said noth¬ 
ing; and so they proceeded for nearly thirty min¬ 
utes. 

Suddenly the stranger broke the silence: 



CHRISTIAN CHiA%!TY 283 

"You were not aware of the character of the house 
you have just left?” 

“I had not the faintest suspicion that it was not as 
represented to me.” 

“It is well that you have left it. It is one of the 
largest and most notorious bagnios in the city, kept 
by Madame Ducrow, a woman whose heart is as 
cold as ice and as hard as the jewels she delights to 
wear. Purchased by the shame of hundreds of young 
girls.” 

A noted bagnio? Great heaven, from what had 
they escaped? Could it be possible that such places 
were tolerated by a righteous government in a Chris¬ 
tian land? And yet even-he, who condemned them, 
frequented them. He could not be wholly pure. 

The young man evidently read her thoughts, for 
he said: 

“You are doubtless surprised that I, knowing the 
place, should be found there. I will explain. My 
name is William Blackstone. I am a detective. 
My business calls me everywhere. I had business 
at Madame Ducrow’s to-night. It is well for you 
that I was there.” 

A detective! She had heard of them before. 
Principally from works of fiction, where they were 
represented as men of indomitable courage, and 
supernatural wisdom. She breathed freer as she 
heard his explanation. She felt she could trust him, 
for she had read that these men were ever the 
friends of innocent unprotected girls. But then 
there came another thought. Her uncle would prob^ 


284 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


ably try to find her, and as it would be an easy 
matter to trace her to Chicago, he would probably 
put her case into the hands of the detectives, and 
endeavor to find her in that manner. 

This would never do. She must conceal her 
name from this new found friend. She must find 
lodgings apart from these he had promised to secure. 
She must not allow him to know of her where¬ 
abouts. 

Filled with these thoughts the journey seemed 
short, and when the carriage stopped, it appeared to 
her as though they had gone but a short distance. 

They were standing before the entrance to a small 
hotel. The detective leaped out, and assisted the 
girls, Rose arousing her sister, who looked about her 
in surprise. 

They mounted a flight of carpeted stairs and found 
themselves in a cozily furnished parlor, feebly illu¬ 
minated by a flickering gas jet. The new friend 
had left them, after showing them to the parlor, but 
in a few moments returned with a sleepy looking 
individual, with a bald head and small side whis¬ 
kers. 

“These are my friends, Mr. Wilcox. Make them 
as comfortable as you can for the night. We will 
see what arrangements can be made in the morning." 

Mr. Wilcox bowed and smirked, and bade the 
ladies follow him. 

“I shall return in the morning,” whispered the de¬ 
tective. “I wish to have a conversation with you. 
You will find this a very nice hotel. Make your- 


CHRISTIAN CHA%ITY 285 

selves as easy as you can. Good night." And he was 
gone. 

Along a dimly lighted corridor Rose followed the 
little man, with the bald head, then up a flight of 
stairs to another hall and then, with some little 
difficulty Mr. Wilcox turned the key in a door 
which bore the number 27, in large black figures, 
upon one of its panels, and, entering, lit the gas and 
ushered them in with another smile and smirk. 

Breakfast until 9:30,” he announced, and then 
left them. 

Rose had been obliged to support her sister to the 
room. She was so drowsy that she could scarcely 
walk, and now that they were alone she allowed 
her to fall upon the bed, where she soon slept 
soundly. Oh, what a relief to be safe from harm 
once more! What a blessing to find shelter beneath 
a respectable roof again! The girl’s heart was ach¬ 
ing, throbbing dully in her breast, but before she 
retired to rest she sank on her knees by the bed¬ 
side and offered up a prayer to God to guide her 
aright, and grateful thanks that it had been no 
worse. She had her sister with her. Before she 
slept, the detective’s parting words came to her. 
He desired a conversation. He wished to become 
informed as to their visit to Chicago. 

“That is it,” thinks the girl, and she falls asleep 
thinking how she can avoid this conversation until 
she can find other lodgings unknown to him. 

She sleeps soundly. Dreams do not visit her, 


286 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


and as the clocks sound out the hour of nine she 
awakes and is soon making her toilet. 

The room is scantily furnished—simply a bed of 
the three-quarter size, a wash stand, bureau, towel- 
rack, and three chairs to match. One of those sets 
which furniture dealers advertise as so necessary for 
young married couples and so cheap. Still, the 
room is more cheerful to the mind of the young 
girl than all the magnificence of the one she has left. 

An involuntary shudder creeps over her, as she 
thinks of it, and again she thanks the Father above 
that they are safe. 

“Sister.” It is the voice of Lilia from the bed. 

“Yes, dear," hurrying to her. 

“My head aches so, and I am so thirsty." 

Poor child. The certain accompaniments of an 
over free indulgence in spirituous liquors. 

Rose hastens to the water pitcher. The contents 
are warm—not fit to drink. A round, white knob 
in the wall attracts her attention. There is a card 
tacked below it and upon it she reads: 

“Press once for water; twice for ice water; three 
times for porter; four times for chambermaid; five 
times for clerk.” 

She has never stopped in a hotel before; so she 
hardly understands the working of the electric an¬ 
nunciator; but she presses the knob twice, and soon 
the hurrying steps of some one are heard in the hall 
outside, and the next moment a knock on the door. 

“Ice water, Miss?" inquires a neatly dressed boy, 
holding a well filled pitcher in his hands. 


CHRISTIAN CHA%ITY 2S7 

"Yes.” She takes it. "Can we get breakfast 
soon?” 

"The dining room is on the floor below. If you 
desire, I will order your breakfast brought up." 

"Do so.” 

He is gone, and R3se carries the glass of cooling 
water to the bedside. Eagerly Lilia drank it. 

"Ah, that is so good," she cried, handing back 
the glass. Rose pours out some of the liquid and 
also drinks heartily. 

"What place is this?” cried Lilia pettishly. 
"How did we get here and why have we left the 
beautiful house where we came this morning?" 

"Hush, dear; a day has passed since we were en¬ 
ticed to that den of iniquity; do not speak of it.” 

"But it is not near so pleasant here. There are 
no lace curtains; no soft carpets.” 

"No, dear; but there is peace and virtue.” 

"I cannot remember. Oh, yes. I begin to recol¬ 
lect. The general gave me some wine. Is that 
what makes my head ache so?" 

"I guess so, dear. Don’t speak of it again.” 

Lilia sees with surprise that her sister looks 
pained; so she says no more, only wonders. 

The breakfast soon makes its appearance, and 
with it a message from Mr. Blackstone. He is wait¬ 
ing in the parlor below. 

Both the girls are hungry, so they make a hasty 
meal. Then Rose prepares for the interview with 
the detective. 

Lilia is still unrefreshed, and lies down to rest 


288 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


awhile yet, and Rose leaves her sleeping. The young 
man rises as she enters the parlor. 

“I have been waiting for some time,” he informs 
her. 

“We have just arisen," answers Rose. 

“I told you last night I desired a few moments 
conversation with you; doubtless you thought me 
bold in asking such a favor; but remember, you 
stated last night that you were strangers in our great 
city, and as I am an officer of the law, it is my duty 
to question you as to your presence here alone, un¬ 
protected, without friends; besides, I have taken a 
great interest in you. Pardon me if I am officious; 
I mean it only for your good.” 

“I appreciate your motives, but will you please 
excuse me from answering at present? l am fatigued. 
I have passed through a terrible experience. The 
like I sincerely hope I shall never be called upon 
to endure again. Give me time. Call again. When 
next we meet I will try and answer your ques¬ 
tions.” 

“Pardon me,” he cried. “I should not have in¬ 
truded. I did not consider. It shall be as you 
wish. Always look upon me as your friend. I will 
willingly serve you;” and he takes his departure. A 
sigh of relief escapes Rose’s breast as she sees him 
depart. She did not think she would be so success¬ 
ful. 

And now to find lodgings. The papers must 
surely contain advertisements of the same, and so, 
once more in her room, sitting beside her sleeping 


CHRISTIAN CHA%ITY 2 Bg 

sister, she eagerly scanned the columns of the "Daily 
News” and "Herald,” which the porter had brought 
her, upon her requesting him to do so. 

She took down several addresses. She knew noth¬ 
ing of the great city, but she had observed, while 
riding along the streets the previous night, that the 
names of the streets were placed upon the lamp 
posts, and she thought she would be able to find her 
way in this manner. 

She put on her hat, and locking the door behind 
her, made her way to the street. 

She took the name of the hotel and its location, 
marking them down upon a card, and then started 
upon her quest. 

She had not gone far before she realized the utter 
impossibility of finding her way unassisted; be¬ 
sides, Mr. Blackstone might accidentally see her 
upon the streets, and think it strange that she, being 
too fatigued to talk to him, should be out but a 
short time after in the hot sun. So she determined 
to find a hack. 

A short walk brought her to a street so crowded 
with people that their numbers frightened her. 
Accosting a policeman, she learned that she was up¬ 
on Clark street, and could easily find what she 
sought. Even as she spoke, a carriage rolled by, 
and the officer hailing it, she was soon inside. 

"Where do you wish to go, Miss?” inquired the 
driver. 

She looked at the paper and directed him to drive 

An Unconscious Crime ig 


290 


t/lN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


to the first address she had marked. The door 
closed with a bang, and away they flew. 

The first advertisement had read as follows: 

“Nicely furnished rooms to let at reasonable 
prices. Apply No. —, Sangamon street.” 

And before long the hack stopped before a shabby 
brick house, with closed blinds. 

“Here you are, Miss,” called the driver, and bid¬ 
ding him wait, Rose rang the bell. 

She waited some little time and then rang again. 

The door soon opened, disclosing a sharp faced 
woman with her hair in curl papers, robed in a 
greasy wrapper. 

“Well; what is it?” she demanded. 

“You have rooms to let?” asked Rose timidly. 

“Yes; three of ’em. Do you want to see ’em?” 

“If you please.” 

“Come in then;” and this very unattractive female 
held the door open. 

Up a flight of dirty, uncarpeted stairs the girl fol¬ 
lowed the woman, observing as she did so that her 
stockings had several large holes in them, and her 
slippers were terribly run down at the heel. 

“Here’s one,” announced the proprietress of the 
“nice rooms,” throwing open a door at the head 
of the stairs. “This one is a dollar and a half a 
week; pay before you move in.” 

The general appearance of this apartment did not 
suit Rose’s ideas of cleanliness; so she said: 

“I will look at the others.” 

“What’s the matter with this one?” 


CHRISTIAN CHA%ITY 291 

“I do not like it.” 

"Don’t like it? Guess you’re tdo high toned for 
this house,” and grumbling she led the way to an¬ 
other, a front room. This was better. The carpet 
was new, the walls newly papered. 

"How much do you charge for this?" 

"Two dollars and a half a week; pay in advance." 

"And about cooking?" 

"Can’t cook in this room. If you want to cook, 
you’ll have to git other accommodations. We only 
lodge." 

"I am a stranger, Madam; I did not know." 

"Well, I’ll tell you, then. You want a room fur¬ 
nished for light housekeeping; that’s what you want, 
and we don’t have ’em in this house. I used to 
keep ’em, but the lodgers used to smash so many 
dishes an’ upset the stove and make so much dirt 
that I give it up. I can’t tolerate dirt." 

Rose was obliged to smile. She could not 
help it. 

She saw she must look further, and so, descending 
the dirty stairs again, she thanked the woman, and 
then consulted the paper once more. There were 
plenty of announcements to the effect that rooms 
furnished for light housekeeping, could be obtained 
at prices to suit the times; but after her experience 
in the house she had just left, she concluded it 
would be better to consult the driver as to the best 
location; so she did so. 

"I know jist what you want,” he said. "I know a 
place that will jist suit you. Git in." 


292 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CHIME 


And they were soon on their way to the place 
“that would jist suit her." 

A long drive this time; but Rose felt relieved as 
she noticed the neighborhood they were passing 
through seemed more respectable, and the houses 
very much neater than the one they had left. 

At last the carriage stopped. They were before a 
severely neat house, painted yellow, with brown 
trimmings. 

"This is Mrs. Whitmire’s," announced the "Jehu." 
"A mighty nice woman; only a little religious." 

A feeling of joy swelled up from the girl’s heart. 
She would surely find love and sympathy where 
there was religion. 

The driver had approached the door and was 
ringing the bell. No long wait this time. The 
door opened almost immediately, disclosing the 
form of Mrs. Whitmire. 

"Well, Robert," she cried in a cracked voice. "I 
have not seen you in a month. What brings you 
here?" 

Young lady wants rooms. I knew you had more 
than you could use, an’ so I brought her.” 

Rose had been studying the woman as the driver 
had been speaking. An old woman, apparently past 
sixty, clad in a shabby dress of somber black, with 
spotless cuffs and collar; very clean. A white cap, 
also perfectly clean, surmounted hair of that unnatu¬ 
ral and impossible brown that can be found only in 
wigs. A pair of huge silver spectacles rested upon 
the very edge of the thin nose, a round knob on the 


CHRISTIAN CHcA%ITY 293 

end of that organ preventing them from falling off; 
and Rose fell to wondering if the protuberance had 
been especially placed there for that purpose. The 
thin lips, now parted in an attempt to smile, showed 
several snags of what had once been teeth, yellow 
from age or neglect, she could not tell which. Al¬ 
together a peculiar looking woman; but a decided 
change from the other. 

“Oh, a young lady. Thank you, Robert,” cried 
the owner of the yellow snags. “Come right in, 
Miss.” 

Rose followed her. She had two rooms, both fur¬ 
nished for light housekeeping, (rather light, Rose 
thought them.) She would rent either for three 
dollars and a half per week, “providing you can 
furnish satisfactory references,” she concluded. 

“Myself and sister are strangers here,” answered 
Rose. 

The aquiline nose ascended in the air. 

“Strangers? I never take in strangers. I must 
be certain of the characters of the persons I rent 
to.” 

“But we are respectable; we will pay you in ad¬ 
vance. ” 

“That is not sufficient. I am a Christian woman, 
and I would consider I had sinned in taking in any¬ 
one I was not sure was all right. Do you belong 
to church?” 

“No, Madam.” 

A deep sigh. 

"Qh, what a shame! If you but knew the com- 


294 


e AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


forting influences of Christianity, how much better 
off you would be!” 

Rose assured her that it might be so, and tried to 
induce her to rent her one of the rooms, which 
would really have suited her, being neat and clean; 
but the Christian woman could not think of such a 
thing, unless satisfactory references could be pro¬ 
duced, and so the girl went out into the street 
again. 

"Couldn’t make it?” queried the driver. 

"I had no references,” answered Rose. 

"The old woman is mighty pertickeler. Rented 
to a man once who said he belonged to church, and 
turned out a burglar afterwards. She’s been mighty 
pertickeler ever since.” 

"She surely does not suspect me of being a burg¬ 
lar?” cried Rose in horror. 

"No, hardly that; but she’s keerful.” 

Many places were visited. None of them suited. 
Some did not like to lodge young girls without 
friends; some charged too high; some were dirty; 
others too clean, insisting upon the girl carrying 
down the dirty water and ashes to the street every 
morning; and it was nearing the hour of two in the 
afternoon when the hack drove up before a pretty 
little cottage in the northwestern part of the city. 

"You’re havin’ a purty hard time of it, "remarked 
"Robert," as he opened the door of the hack for the 
twentieth time. "I hopes you’ll catch on here." 

With a timid step Rose opened the gate that led 
into a small well kept garden before the house, 


CHRISTIAN CH<A%ITY 


295 


She breathed a short prayer as she rang the bell, 
almost dreading the door to open. 

She felt relieved when a young woman, hardly 
older than herself, answered the summons. She 
was the most promising in appearance of any she 
had met during the day. 

“You have rooms to rent, furnished for light 
housekeeping?” 

“Yes; come in." 

As she busied herself in closing the door, the 
young woman informed the girl that she had been re¬ 
cently married; that the cottage was the property of 
her husband and as it was rather too large for them, 
they had thought it a good idea to rent some of the 
rooms. 

“They are niceiy furnished and clean,” she said; 
“and I hope you will like them. Are you married?" 

“No;” with a heavy feeling as she thought of her 
lover. 

“Not married!” 

“I wish the apartments for myself and sister.” 

“Oh, you have a sister? How nice. Come this 
way. ” 

The young woman was a chatty little body, her 
whole heart wrapped up in her husband, who was 
foreman in a planing mill, and so was absent dur¬ 
ing the day. 

“Sunday is the only day we really have together, 
and we generally spend it at home, or go to the 
theatre in the evening,” she cried, throwing open 
the door of one of the rooms to be rented, 


296 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"Theatre on Sunday!” gasped Rose in horror. 

"Why yes. We have theatres open on Sundays 
in Chicago. It is our best day. You see so many 
working people are too worn out to go on week 
days, and so Sunday is the only day they have for 
pleasure or recreation.” 

"Do you not attend church?” 

"Oh, yes; sometimes, in the * morning. We do 
not belong to any church. My husband says there 
are lots of people who go to church on Sunday, and 
lie, and press down the poor during the week. We 
pay our bills and try to be honest; that is the best 
we can do.” 

How much different from the Christian Mrs. Whit¬ 
mire. But she said no more, and examined the 
room. It was pretty and tasty, and she felt she 
could be happy there; so she asked the price. 

"Well, I never rented rooms before, and I hardly 
know what to charge. How much do you think is 
right?” 

"Really, I cannot say. You see, I, too, am a 
novice in affairs of this kind.” 

"John did not say how much I was to charge. 
Say two dollars a week; is that too much?” 

"No; I think not. I will pay that, and make a 
deposit now.” 

"Never mind that. John says there are two kinds 
of bad paymasters: those who pay in advance and 
those who do not pay at all. Move in, and pay at 
the end of the week.” 


WO%K F0% WOMEN 


297 


The tears came to the young girl’s eyes. Here 
was unexpected kindness. 

“Well, be it so,” she murmured. “I shall be here 
to-night as soon as I can return to my hotel, get my 
trunk and return with my sister.” 

“Very well; I shall expect you.” 

With a light step Rose approached the hack. 

“What luck?” cried the kind hearted “cabby.” 

“I have found a home at last,” answered the girl. 

“Nice neighborhood, too,” commented the driver. 
“Back to the hotel?” he asked. 

“Yes; back to the hotel;” and leaning back upon 
the soft cushions, a great feeling of relief crept over 
her. She had found one among all she had seen dur¬ 
ing the day, who, although not a church member, 
was at least a Christian. 


I CHAPTER XXXIX 

WORK FOR WOMEN 

It was past three o’clock when the hack drew up 
before the hotel where the girls had stopped the 
night before. Bidding the driver to await her re¬ 
turn, as she wished him to carry them to the cot¬ 
tage, Rose ran up the stairs; remembering as she 
did so that she had locked Lilia in the room when 
she had left. She found the door open and her sis¬ 
ter reclining in a rocking chair, reading a paper. 

“You are a nice one,” cried Lilia, as Rose en¬ 
tered; “to go off and leave me locked up in my 



298 


c 4N UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


room like a thief or a robber. I had to send for the 
clerk to unlock the door so that I could get some 
dinner.” 

.‘‘I did not think, dear,” murmured Rose. 

"I suppose not. Where have you been?” 

"Looking for lodgings.” 

'"Have you found them?” 

"Yes; very nice ones, too; and Oh, so cheap; 
only two dollars a week. ” 

"That Is cheap. Have you read the papers to¬ 
day?" 

"I glanced over the morning papers." 

“Read this.” She hands her the paper she has 
been reading. Rose glances over it, and lets it fall 
in surprise and shame. It contains the full account 
of their enticement to Madame Ducrow’s house, and 
subsequent rescue by Mr. Blackstone. Even their 
names, Rose and Lilia, were published. The arti¬ 
cle concluded by saying: 

“The young girls are now housed at one of our 
hotels, and efforts will be made at once to learn 
their story and find their friends. Mr. Blackstone, 
one of the ablest officers of the detective service, 
has taken the case in charge, and before long will 
surely know the facts of the case.” 

She dropped the paper. She had not thought of 
the possibility of the occurrence finding its way to 
the papers. They must go at once. Mr. Blackstone 
must not know. She did not read the next column. 
If she had done so, she would have known of the 
horrible railroad accident which had taken place the 
day before—-upon the same road they had traveled 


WOT{K F0% WOMEN 2 9g 

upon, and would have read the names of John Bar¬ 
ton and Charles Atkinson among those who were in¬ 
jured. But she cast the paper aside, and remained 
in ignorance of it. They were soon ready to take 
their departure. The clerk was summoned to the 
room, the bill was paid, the trunk carried down 
stairs and put in the carriage, and they were driven 
to their new home. As the carriage rolled around 
the corner, Rose, who had been looking out of the 
window, drew back quickly. She had seen the man¬ 
ly form of Mr. Blackstone, walking in the direction 
of the hotel, and realized that they had left just in 
time. It was fast approaching the hour for the 
evening meal, as the carriage drew up before the 
little cottage. The young woman was evidently 
expecting them, as the door opened almost immedi¬ 
ately. 

"Come right in,” she cried cheerfully. "Ah, this 
is your sister. Younger than you, I see. A very 
pretty girl. John will be home soon, and then we 
will have supper. I think you had better take 
supper with us to-night. You will hardly be able to 
get things ready to cook for yourselves to-night. 
To-morrow you will be all right.” 

This was an unexpected kindness, and Rose 
thanked her with tears in her eyes. 

She paid the driver, and he drove off, wishing 
her all the luck in the world. 

The little trunk had been carried to the pretty 
room, and Rose found clean water and towels in 
plenty, and the little woman leaving them while 


300 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


she went to prepare for the coming of “John,” they 
indulged in a change of clothing and a good wash, 
and felt refreshed. As they sat waiting the sum¬ 
mons to the table, Rose quietly placed one arm 
around her sister’s neck, and drew her to her bosom. 

“My darling,” she murmured. “We are now alone 
—you and 1, all in all to each other. You, through 
love for me, your sister, have left home to share my 
sorrows or joys. We have been unfortunate, nearly 
fell into temptation; you are young and did not 
think, but Oh, Lilia, now that you have read of 
the character of the place to which we were uncon¬ 
sciously enticed, now that you realize its horrors, 
pray to God to forgive you the first sin of your 
young life, and shun all who approach you in the 
garb of friendship, unless their motives are clearly 
proven before. Abide in your sister’s love; be 
content to be governed by me." 

With many tears, the young girl promised, and 
soon tea was announced. They found “John” to be 
a clean-shaven honest looking young man, seemingly 
hardly accustomed to his position as a husband as 
yet. He blushed bashfully as his wife introduced 
the two girls, and muttered something to the effect 
that he hoped they would like their accommoda¬ 
tions, and then ate his supper in silence. 

Rose had given their names as Rosina and Lillian 
Morton, thinking it best to change them a little. 

After tea the girls and Mrs. Wood, (the young 
woman had introduced herself as Mary Wood, her 
husband, John Wood,) adjourned to the neat, cosy 


WORK FOR WOMEN 


3 °x 

parlor, where they chatted and sang until ten 
o’clock, Lilia playing upon the cottage organ, 
which stood in the corner, and the evening passed 
pleasantly. 

Once mere in their room, Rose took an account 
of the mor.cy she had on hand. She had been al¬ 
lowed fifty dollars per month, by kind Uncle John, 
for pocket money, to purchase those numberless lit¬ 
tle items of a young girl’s toilet, which seem so in¬ 
dispensable. She had received her monthly allow¬ 
ance, but a few days before her sudden departure, 
and still had nearly one half of the previous month’s 
allowance unexpended. Consequently, she had been 
possessed of a capital of nearly seventy five dollars 
when she had purchased the two tickets. They 
had cost her $30; the hotel bill had been $2, the 
hack man $4; so she found herself the possessor 
of $39. Two of this amount must go for rent. 
They could certainly live upon five dollars per week 
as their wants were few, and the simple girl figured 
that they would be able to exist for five weeks up 
on the sum she had on hand. 

“I will surely obtain employment of some kind in 
that time,” she murmured, and felt easy in her mind. 

They arose early. It was a new undertaking for 
either of the girls to prepare food; but they suc¬ 
ceeded admirably, and although the coffee was rath¬ 
er weak, they sat down to their first breakfast as 
happy as they could be under the circumstances. 

Then to scan the papers in search of some one 
who could find use for their talents. 


302 unconscious crime 

Under the head of "Help Wanted—Females," 
they found many advertisements. Chambermaids, 
nurses, cooks, seamstresses, shirt-makers, coat-mak¬ 
ers, etc., etc., until at last, with a cry of delight, 
Rose pounced upon one, and read it aloud to her 
sister: 

"Twenty-five dollars a week and no capital re¬ 
quired. Nice, clean employment for ladies of re¬ 
finement. No experience required. Call at Nos. — 
and — Monroe St., between the hours of ten and 
two." 

"Just what we want," cried Rose. "I will call 
there to-day." 

"Twenty-five dollars a week—my! how easy it is 
to make money in a large city," cried Lilia. 

Such a hurrying to clean up the room; such a 
time dressing, and at ten o’clock Rose was on her 

way to the liberal advertisers. Nos. — and _ 

Monroe St., proved to be a large stone building, 
with a machinery depot upon the first floor. Rose 
looked at it rather doubtfully. 

This cannot be the place,” she murmured, glanc¬ 
ing at her paper. Yes. There it was. That was 
the place, so she entered the office and timidly ac¬ 
costed a very thin old gentleman, wearing a green 
shade over his eyes, while he rapidly ran up a col¬ 
umn of figures in a tremendous book. 

"This is Nos. — and — Monroe St?." 

"Hey, what? Yes; don’t bother me," and he 
frowned upon her. 

"But you advertised in the paper_" 


WCFRK F0% WOMEN 


3°3 


"Who? me? Guess not." 

"Here it is, sir," handing him the paper. 

"Ha—ha—ha—! Nice clean work, twenty-five dol¬ 
lars a week. That’s good. You would look nice, 
working around machinery, wouldn’t you? Nice 
and clean, hey? You would be nice and clean in 
an hour. This ‘ad’ must be for the people on the 
next floor. Go upstairs—door to the right." 

"Thank you, sir. Good morning." 

"Ah, yes. Good morning." He is engaged in his 
accounts before she has left the office. 

Up the stairs to the floor above. 

"Ah, yes. This is the place. You come in answer 
to our ‘ad?’ Sit down. Warm, isn’t it?" and a 
corpulent gentleman with a dirty shirt and a red 
face beams upon her. "You think you would like to 
undertake the introduction of our goods? I think 
you would find it a nice, easy, well-paying position. 
I’ll just show you what it is. Here we have Un¬ 
derhill’s patent baby tender, an apparatus which, 
attached to a cradle or bed and to the infant, an¬ 
nounces when the child moves, keeps the cradle 
rocking, holds the bottle in place when the child 
is not a nursing one, and makes a buzzing noise 
which lulls the most fractious into refreshing slum¬ 
ber. It has found ready sale wherever introduced, 
and there are a number of ladies making from 
twenty-five to forty dollars per week introducing 
them." 

"I do not understand—" 

“How to sell them? I’ll explain. You take the 


3°4 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


sample and go to almost any home where there is 
young babies; then you attach it, and show how it 
does its work. Then, after you make your sale, you 
take a deposit, which you bring to this office, and we 
deliver the goods at once, paying you your commis¬ 
sion. The tender sells for ten dollars. We allow 
you three on every sale; so you see you are only 
obliged to sell eight per week and you are the richer 
by twenty-four dollars. You can sell one in almost 
every house you go; so you can see the amount 
of money you can make, if you work steadily.” 

“Then you pay me a commission on what I sell?” 

Certainly. We give you one sample on which 
you deposit five dollars, which is returned to you 
when you leave our employ, returning the sample in 
good order.” 

I hardly think I could make a success of it." 

“Nonsense. Why, Miss Lee, a young girl just 
from school, only fifteen years of age, cleared twenty- 
seven dollars in three days last week. You could 
certainly do as well.” 

“I do not think”— 

“Then there is Mrs. Babcock—” 

"Mr. Moneyman;” a voice behind them. 

“Ah, Mrs. Babcock; just speaking of you. How 
goes it?" smiling broadly and rubbing his fat 
hands. 

"I am not doing anything. I cannot seem to 
arouse any interest in the minds of mothers; so I 
brought you back the sample. I cannot afford to 
waste any more time with it.” 


WORK FOR WOMEN 


The broad smile changes into a sickly grin, as the 
woman, a pale, seedy, middle-aged creature, with a 
sad face, speaks. Then a frown contracts the red 
forehead. 

“You don’t try, Mrs. Babcock.” 

“I have walked the shoes off my feet, sir." 

“Your appearance is against you, Mrs. Bab¬ 
cock. You should dress better, and look cheer¬ 
ful. You look as if you were going to your own 
funeral. ” 

“These are the best garments I have, sir, and I 
cannot look cheerful with a dying husband at home, 
and two hungry children.” 

“And I suppose you want your money refunded, 
after keeping the sample for two weeks, and wear¬ 
ing it out, only getting one order?" 

“You agreed to do so, sir. It is not my fault 
that I cannot sell the article.” 

“Must be. The article sells itself." 

“The sample gets out of order so easily. It won’t 
work half the time.” 

“Then you have broken it. Let me see." Takes 
the article. “Yes; broken. Very sorry, Mrs. Bab¬ 
cock, but our agreement was that you were to return 
the sample in good condition. You can see it is 
worthless. I cannot refund you your deposit;" and 
he turns from her. 

“But my husband, my children?" 

“Can’t bother with such things. Good morning." 

With a sigh the woman picks up the useless fraud, 

An Unconscious Crime 20 


3°6 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


and goes to the door. Tears gather in the eyes of 
the young girl, and she hastens after her. 

“One moment, Miss," cries Mr. Moneyman. 

“I do not care to enter your employment," replies 
Rose haughtily, and she leaves the room, Mr. Mon¬ 
eyman muttering: "D—n the woman. She came in 
to queer me." 

The pale woman in black was standing at the foot 
of the dirty stairs, looking about her in a helpless 
manner, as Rose approached her. 

“Pardon me," said Rose kindly; “but I under¬ 
stood you to say your husband was sick, your chil¬ 
dren without food." 

“It is the truth, Miss. We are destitute. I pawned 
my husband’s watch to get the money I deposited 
with that heartless wretch upstairs, and now it is 
gone. I don’t know what is to become of us." 

"But I should think if you applied to the author¬ 
ities they would force him to return your money.” 

“Ah, you don’t know, Miss. He would claim that 
I had broken the sample, and refer to our agree* 
ment, and I would get nothing. He has money. I 
have not.” 

“But this is robbery; it is not right.” 

“You don’t understand the ways of this place, 
Miss. Money makes might here, and might crushes 
right. No; I will never be able to get my money." 

To the simple mind of Rose this was terrible. She 
could not conceive the heartlessness of the man she 
had just left. 

“Never mind,” she cried. “Your children shall be 


3$7 


WORK FOR WOMEN 

fed. I have not much; but I will do something for 
you. Here;” and she slipped a dollar in the wom¬ 
an’s hand. 

"God bless you, Miss," cried the poor creature. 
"You will surely be rewarded.” 

"Go home to your husband and children,” said 
Rose softly, "and pray for me,” and she turned away 
to hide her tears, tears of sympathy, pearls of rare 
worth. She hailed a passing car, and proceeded on 
her way to answer another advertisement. Mrs. 
Wood had given her minute instructions as to the 
cars, their color, where they ran, etc., and the 
quick-witted girl was growing accustomed to the 
many ways of the great city. 

The second advertiser carried on an extensive dry 
goods business upon State street He wished sales 
ladies. The car passed the door, the distance being 
so short that Rose regretted that she had not walked 
it. 

She entered the* mammoth dry goods palace and 
was soon sitting before the proprietor, a little 
shrewd looking gentleman, evidently of Hebrew 
extraction. 

"Have you ever had experience?” was the first 
question he asked her. 

"No, but I am quick to learn.” 

"I don’t think you would suit. Our business calls 
for experienced girls. We have not the time to 
teach one.” 

Rose was forced to say that everyone must have a 
beginning. 


3 o8 *AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

"Very true,” sharply answered the merchant; 
“but this is not a school. Good morning, ’ and Rose 
walked out with burning cheeks. 

She next applied for the position of copyist. She 
wrote a good, plain hand and thought she could 
give satisfaction in that respect. 

The advertiser informed her that he desired a 
type-writer, and as she did not understand that, she 
would not suit. 

So on, until four o’clock. Upstairs, downstairs, 
even in my lady’s chamber; for in desperation, she 
applied for the position of governess to two chil¬ 
dren, and was informed she would not suit; she was 
too young, too pretty. “My husband was too atten¬ 
tive to the last governess,” the lady informed her, 
and with a heavy heart she returned home. 

“Is there no work for an educated woman to do?" 
she cried mentally as she got upon the car to re¬ 
turn home. “Why, yes," any one will say. What 
is there? “Oh, a woman can sew and teach and 
scrub and do lots of things. There are hundreds of 
young girls employed in our large factories; they 
get well paid and seem contented." True; but again 
comes the demand for experience and reference and 
a knowledge of this, and that, and so on to the end 
of the chapter. It is difficult for a young, inexperi¬ 
enced girl to obtain employment. Those who have 
tried know this. Tnere is plenty of work to do, but of 
such a character that the refined nature of the educat¬ 
ed woman shrinks from it. A preacher of the Gospel 
would be out of place as an assistant in an abattoir 


A STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE 


3 ° 9 

or digging cellars, and Rose Barton would have 
been out of place as a servant; she who had been 
accustomed to have others to wait upon her. So 
although there is work to do, employment for many, 
the mere fact of refinement and education is a se¬ 
vere drawback to some who would willingly work 
if they could but find employment suitable to their 
position in life, who could not endure the hardship 
and toil which seem to some as nothing. The Ital¬ 
ian laborer can work and live for sixty cents per 
day. Can you? 


CHAPTER XL 

A STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE 

For the next day and the next Rose did not 
search for employment. She was thoroughly worn 
out by her exertions, and disgusted— yes, disheart¬ 
ened, by her want of success. She had gone out so 
expectant, so certain that she would find no diffi¬ 
culty in obtaining that for which she sought, that 
her complete failure proved a terrible set-back to 
her, and she remained at home, keeping to her 
room for the most part; even excusing herself to 
friendly Mrs. Wood, who would have been pleased 
to talk with her. 

But on the third day her courage returned and 
she eagerly scanned the many ‘ads,’ seeking for one 
that promised favorable results. Mrs. Wood came 
to the room while she was so engaged. 

"Are you better to-day?” she auxiously inquired, 




3io e/W UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

Rose had excused herself on the plea of being in¬ 
disposed. 

“Much better, thank you.” 

"Excuse me, Miss Morton; but you seem worried 
about something. What is it? Perhaps I might be 
of help to you." 

The girl told her all, and the kind little body 
heard her through without comment. 

“I can help you,” she announced after Rose had 
finished. 

"You can?” 

"Yes; and I will. You see, before I married 
John, I was obliged to work for a living, and so I 
took in shirts and vests to make. I have a sewing 
machine, and I can easily get all the work you can 
do. It does not pay very big, but it is better than 
nothing.” 

"And will you do this for me?” 

"Of course I will. You can have the use of the 
machine and welcome, and I will go with you to 
Mr. Nunnemacher, the shirt man, and introduce 
you, just as soon as I get my house cleaned." 

In an hour they were on their way to the shirt 
manufacturer’s. 

"How you vas, Maree?” he grunted as they en¬ 
tered the stuffy little office, where the business of 
the place was transacted. 

“Oh, I am well, Mr. Nunnemacher.” 

“Und your man; he vas veil, too?” 

"Yes, thank you.” 

n Vat you vant to-day?” 


A STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE 


3 1 * 


‘This is Mi$s Morton, Mr. Nunnemacher. She 
rents rooms from me and would like to take in 
work. ” 

‘‘Did you efer make shirts, Miss Morton?" 

‘‘No, sir; but I am a good seamstress." 

"I don’t know if you’ll suit." 

"Oh, yes she will, Mr. Nunnemacher. I will 
show her just what to do, and help her." 

"All right. You know vat we pay?" 

"I do not, sir," answered Rose. 

"Veil, I vill put you on cheap vork fairst, und 
vill pay you sigsdy cents a dozen." 

"That is not very much, sir." 

"Veil, it’s de best ve can do. Blenty of gairls 
made good vages, und ven you gits pairfect ve vill 
put you on fine vork." 

"You paid me more than that," interceded Mrs. 
Wood. 

"Of course, Maree, but you vas a good vorker, 
you understand de pisness. Dis lady is a green¬ 


horn. 


"Take them," whispered Mrs. Wood. "I’ll help 



So Rose departed from the hot office with a huge 


bundle of material and patterns, and hurried home, 
Mrs. Wood encouraging her on the way. 

"Were you successful?" cried Lilia, meeting her 
at the door. 

"Yes, sister, and now we can go to work to sup¬ 
port ourselves." 

j She did not lose any time in beginning. In a 



312 


C AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


9 

short time the sisters were hard at work, Mrs. Wood 
assisting them in every possible way. All the long 
afternoon the buzz and whirr of the sewing machine 
was heard, and by night their combined efforts had 
turned out four of the dozen shirts. 

They did no work after supper; they were both 
too tired, but by seven o’clock the next morning 
they were at it again. They completed a full doz¬ 
en that day. “Oh, how tired I am!” murmured 
Lilia, as they ate their frugal meal. 

“My back is breaking.” 

“You are not accustomed to such work," answered 
Rose, who, although every nerve in her body was 
twitching with pain from the severe labor, and every 
muscle was wearied, made no complaint. 

“And we only get sixty cents for this day’s work. 
Why, Rose, we cannot live and pay rent on that." 

“We will be able to do better after we have be¬ 
come accustomed to it." 

“I hope so,” and the young girl sighed. 

Mr. Nunnemacher had supplied material for three 
dozen shirts and the girls managed to complete 
them in two and one half days; then Rose carried 
her work to the German. 

“Veil, you’ve got ’em done, hey? Bretty good 
for a new hand. Let me see ’em," and he untied 
the large bundle. 

“Hum; not finished as good as dey oughter be; 
but I suppose I must make allowance for new begin¬ 
ners. Try and geep your seams straight, my dear, 

and geep ’em clean.” 







_I 




LOOKING FOK WORK.—Page 311 















































































































































































































































■ 





























4 * 


































, 

. 




ft 























A STRUGGLE F0% EXISTENCE 313 


He paid her the amount due her and she departed 
with another large bundle. 

For two weeks the two girls worked all day and 
the greater portion of the night making the coarse 
shirts. The rough material made their fingers 
sore, the light of the lamp which they used at night 
made their eyes ache. Sore, tired backs were no 
strangers to them now. They were never without 
them. Lilia fretted and complained; Rose never. 

At last the younger sister declared she could 
stand it no longer. 

“I am a young girl,” she cried. “I cannot slave 
my young life away at this drudgery. To think 
with our combined work we only earned a few cents- 
over four dollars last week. We will both be laid 
up sick in bed the first thing you know.” 

“But what are we to do, sister?” answered Rose, 
meekly. 

“Starvation is preferable to this. If we could 
earn a living I should not complain; but you have 
been obliged to draw from your own money, in or¬ 
der to live. You know it." 

It was indeed true. They could not earn sufficient 
even by the most persistent endeavors to pay rent 
and purchase food. 

Then, again, Lilia had needed shoes, and they 
had been purchased. They were obliged to pur¬ 
chase their own cotton for the machine, and taking 
it all together it was discouraging, and Rose sighed 
deeply. 

“It is better than nothing, Lilia," she said. 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


3 1 4 

“Not much. You will kill yourself, Rose. I 
know I can’t stand it, and I am not going to try.” 

“Very well; I will work for you,” very meekly. 
The girl hurried to her, and placed one arm about 
her neck. 

“No, you won’t, you dear old goose. I will not 
allow you. Put away your work and listen to me. 
You have been out and tried to find a position. I 
have never tried yet. You were not successful; I 
may be. So I have made up my mind to start out 
the first thing in the morning.” 

“But what can you do, dear?” 

“Ah, I’ll find something. Don’t worry and fret; 
put away the old shirts and we will go out for a 
walk. ” 

With a sigh Rose did so. They had eaten sup¬ 
per, and it was nearly eight o’clock. They walked 
arm in arm until they reached the thoroughfare of 
that portion of the divided city, and proceeded 
along the brilliant crowded street like two children 
interested in all they saw. 

The sound of music came to their ears. It pro¬ 
ceeded from a German beer garden, which was lit¬ 
erally alive with people. 

Glancing in, the girls saw that the waiters were 
ail young girls. 

“I’ll wager those girls make more money than we 
do," cried Lilia; “and I’ll be bound they don’t 
work as hard either.” 

Rose drew back in horror. 


STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE 315 

"Rather drudgery than that,” she cried. "Come, 
sister. ” 

Lilia allowed herself to be led away; but she re¬ 
mained silent and preoccupied during the walk 
home. Rose noticed this; so, when they had dis¬ 
robed and got into bed she said: 

"Promise me that you will not allow any such 
thought as becoming a waitress in a beer hall to enter 
your mind. You are a simple, innocent child, Lilia 
You would be terribly out of place in # such a 
position. Think of your honor, your position in 
life.” 

"But they make money, Rose, and do not have to 
work hard.” 

"My darling, their work is harder than you think, 
and God knows what it leads to. Drive any such 
thought from your mind. I •‘Will work and support 
you. Abide with your sister;” and she placed her 
lips to the young girl’s forehead. 

"I was not thinking of such a thing,” she mur¬ 
mured pettishly. "Only, I saw how bright every¬ 
thing lookednhere, and the girls all looked clean 
and happy.” 

"Do not be deceived by outward show, dear. 
Appearances are sometimes deceitful.” 

They soon fell asleep, and in the morning Rose 
hastened to finish the last shirt of the lot, prepara¬ 
tory to delivering them. 

She was busily engaged when, in turning her head 
accidentally, she overturned a small ink bottle which 
Lilia had been using the night before, and before 


3*6 


cAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


she could prevent it, the entire contents were spilled 
over the new garment. 

She tried to remove the stain. It was impossi¬ 
ble; it could not be done; and so, giving it up, she 
folded up the work and started upon her way to 
deliver it. 

“I will explain how it happened,” she murmured. 
"Mr. Nunnemacher will not be severe with me 
this time.” So thinking she entered the store. 

‘‘Goot morning, Miss Morton. You haf come 
early dis time. You are getting to be a ferry goot 
vorkman now. Soon I’ll put you on petter vork.” 

“I met with an accident this morning, Mr. Nunne¬ 
macher. ” 

"Dit you? Vat vas it,” untying the bundle. 

“I spilled some ink on one of the shirts.’ 

“Vat? Ink? Let me see;” and her heart sank 
as she saw his manner change, his voice growing 
harsh. 

“Gootness me ! Dat shairt is spoiled,” he cried as 
he surveyed the stain. "I can nefer sell dat. You 
vill haf to bay for dat, Miss Morton.” 

‘‘I thought, sir, as it was upon the lower portion 
of the garment I might cut it out and put in a new 
piece,” faintly cried the girl. 

"Und botch de vork! No, Miss; I gant allow my 
vork to be botched. It vill cost you sixty cents.” 

Sixty cents! The pay for a dozen. The labori¬ 
ous work of the two girls for twelve hours! 

“Is not that unjust?” feebly remonstrated the dis¬ 
heartened girl. 


A STR UGGLE F 0 % EX/STENCE 317 

'‘Vat? Unjust? You ruin my goots, und den tink 
I charge you nodings?” 

"The damage is but slight. It can be repaired.” 

"Don’t you tell me vat my pisness is, Miss Mor¬ 
ton. Dere is a dollar und twenty cents. Dat is all 
you vill get,” and he laid the money upon the desk. 

With tears of despair in her eyes, the girl picked 
up the pittance, and turned to go. 

"Here is your work retty for you," cried the Ger¬ 
man. "Pe more careful de next time," and he pushed 
a bundle toward her. 

"I do not care to work for you any longer,” an¬ 
swered Rose, and she left the office. 

"Soot yourself,” shouted the German. "If you 
kin lif vidout work, dat is none of my pisness. 
Shut de door,” he added as she walked out, leaving 
the front door ajar. 

"Dat is de vay mit dem gairls,” he muttered, 
sitting down in his easy chair. "You gif dem vork, 
und if dey spoil it, und you asks dem to pay for it, 
den dey gits mat. Veil, let her go. Dere is lots of 
oder gairls glad to git de vork to do.” 

Lilia was not in the room when Rose, disheart¬ 
ened, almost sick of life, returned. 

"She went out a short time after you,” said Mrs. 
Wood. 

"Gone to seek employment,” thought Rose. "I 
hope she will be successful.” 

The day dragged wearily through. At five o’clock 
Lilia returned. Rose observed as she entered the 
little room that she glanced around it as though 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


318 

dissatisfied. She did not think anything of it at the 
time. She remembered it in after days. 

“Where were you, dear?” she asked her. 

“Oh; looking for something easier than shirt- 
making,” answered Lilia. 

“Were you successful?” beginning to make prepa¬ 
rations for tea. 

“No. No one wants a young, inexperienced girl.” 
She spoke pettishly. 

“I am so sorry, dear.” 

“So am I;" throwing her hat upon the bed. “I 
am getting so tired of this way of living, cooped up 
in a seven by nine room, no fresh air, no pleasure, 
not even decent food. I am not used to it.” 

“Neither am I, dear sister; but we must make the 
best of it. A change may come for the better." She 
grieved in her loving heart. She loved her young 
sister. Her words went home to her very soul. 

After supper she told her of the incident of the 
ruined shirt. 

“And did that man really deduct the price of the 
shirt from your wages?” 

“He did, Lilia I refused to work for him 
longer.” 

“I am glad you did that. The ignorant Dutch 
fool. We can live without him.” 

“I hope so, Lilfra. We can but try.” 

Rose went to her bed with a heavy heart and 
an aching head that night, but sleep came not. 
She heard the clocks strike twelve, one, two, before 
she closed her eyes. She was wondering what was 


A STRUGGLE F 0 % EXISTENCE 319 

to become of them; what she could find to do now; 
and sleep found her still undecided. 

In the morning the headache was worse, and be¬ 
fore night she was in a raging fever. 

The doctor, called in by Mrs. Wood, looked 
grave. 

“Over-work and an uneasy mind,” he said. 

“Will she recover, Doctor?” asked Lilia in a 
whisper. She was frightened, poor girl. 

“She will requiie good nursing,” answered the 
man of medicine. And she got it. Kind Mrs. Wood 
was by her bed nearly all the time, and “John” often 
found it necessary for him to prepare his own 
meals, but he did not complain. He sympathized 
with the girls and would have willingly gone hun¬ 
gry rather than have called his wife from the bed 
of sickness. 

For three long weeks Rose lay at death’s door, 
and then, thanks to the attention she received, she 
rallied and was soon able to be up. The doctor 
pronounced her out of danger, and after a few more 
visits ceased to come at all. They were sitting 
around Mrs. Wood’s cheerful table one night at tea 
when a ring at the door bell startled them. 

“Go to the door, John.” John went. 

“What is it?” inquired the wife as he returned. 

“A letter or something for Miss Rosina. ” 

Rose took the white envelope and opened it 
She turned slightly pale. 

“Bad news!" cried Mrs. Wood. 

“No; only the doctor’s bill," / 


320 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"Oh, is that all?” Lilia spoke. 

"Yes. That is all.” 

They continued the meal, but Rose ate but little; 
little wonder, for the bill for services and medicines 
which she had just received when paid would leave 
her without a cent in the world, weak, unable to 
work as yet, with no prospect of any work to do ? 
even if she had been strong enough. What was to 
become of her, and helpless Lilia? 

And so she ate but little. 


CHAPTER XLI 

A sister’s shame 

Rose hesitated a long time before she told Lilia 
of their circumstances, and regretted it immediately 
after she had done so, when she saw the beautiful 
face grow hard and cold. 

"And so we are penniless?” she muttered. 

Yes, Lilia; or will be when this bill is paid.” 

"Could you not go to the doctor and explain our 
circumstances and ask him to reduce his charge?” 

"I am too proud to do that, sister.” 

Too proud! Then you would rather starve than 
do this?” 

"Something will surely come, dear.” 

"I suppose Mrs. Wood would board us for awhile.” 
mused Lilia. 

"I shall not expose myself to her,” said Rose de- 
terminedly. 

"What are we to do then?" cried Lilia pettishly. 



tA SISTER’S SHAME 


3 2 * 


"I shall pay the doctor his bill. He saved my life 
and earned his money. We have sufficient food to 
last us for a short time with economy. I shall go 
out in the morning, and I shall find employment of 
some kind before I return. I shall not be particular. 
I shall accept anything that I am capable of doing, 
so long as it is honest;” and Rose looked resolved. 

“Very well,” murmured the younger sister, and 
she made no other reply. Her mind was busy, but 
she said not one word of what was passing there. 

Rose kept her word. The next morning she was 
on her way to the doctor’s office before Lilia was 
awake. She found the physician at home. 

“Why, Miss Morton!” he cried upon seeing her. 
“You are not fit to be out. You are taking great 
chances;” offering a chair. 

“I received your bill last night. I do not like to 
be in debt, so I came to pay you.” 

“Why, there was no immediate hurry about that. 
I always send out my bills the first of every month. 
I am not in immediate need of the money.” 

“I would prefer to pay you now,” replied Rose. 
She felt that if the money was not paid, it 
might be expended for some other purpose, and 
then she would be unable to pay it at all. True, it 
left her destitute; but better this than indebtedness. 
The physician counted over the money she gave 
him, and returned her five dollars. 

“There is a mistake in the bill,” he explained. 
“The medicines did not cost as much as I thought.” 

An Unconscious Crime 21 



3 22 


cAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


The girl breathed a silent expression of gratitude 
to the Ruler of all for this unexpected windfall, and 
thanking the doctor, left the office. 

She still had five dollars; but five dollars would 
not last long. She must find employment. 

She purchased a paper with very little hope of 
seeing anything that would suit her, still she glanced 
over the columns that possessed interest for her, 
and marked several “ads” that she thought might 
be productive of favorable results. The first was 
for an amanuensis, but she found she would not 
suit, being too young, the lady declared; and all to 
whom she applied had some fault to find until the 
girl began to think that the fates were singularly 
against her. 

Shortly after noon she came to the last. The ad¬ 
vertisement called for a young girl to work in a res¬ 
taurant. “One who has had some experience,” it 
read, and Rose had decided to apply at any rate, al¬ 
though she was entirely ignoiant of the duties she 
might be called upon to perform. 

“It cannot surely be anything that I am not capa¬ 
ble of,” she thought as she entered the crowded 
place. A thin-faced woman of perhaps thirty-five, 
dressed in a costume decidedly girlish; with hair 
much frizzed, and wearing an abundance of jewelry, 
sat upon a high stool behind a little grating with 
a small window in its front, with a sign bearing the 
word, “Cashier,” attached to the top. 

To her the girl made her application. 

“You came about the ad?’ I think the place is 


A SISTER'S SHAME 


3*3 

filled; still, you can wait a moment, and I’ll send 
for Mr. Kenroy. ” 

A young man presented a check and the amount 
it called for at this moment. After he had gone 
the woman summoned one of the waiters, a negro. 

“Go find Mr. Kenroy,” she ordered in a sharp 
voice, and the man hurried away. 

While waiting, Rose surveyed the interior of the 
place. She had never been in such a large institu¬ 
tion of the kind before, and its size and the scene of 
bustle amazed her. 

“Where can all these people come from?” she 
thought. 

The room was a large one. Running through the 
center was a long lunch counter, where fully a hun¬ 
dred men, apparently clerks or merchants, were hur¬ 
riedly devouring their mid-day lunch. Meats of 
every kind, pastry, fruits, etc., were piled up upon 
the long counter, and white-capped and aproned 
negroes were busily supplying the demands of the 
patrons of the place. Around the sides of the place 
were small tables, large enough to accommodate 
four people each, and they were all occupied at 
this moment. Hurrying waiters carried large trays 
literally piled up with small dishes of vegetables, 
larger ones of meats and fowl, bowls of soup, cups of 
liquid refreshment, such as tea or coffee, glasses of 
milk, etc., one placed on top of the other, in pyr¬ 
amids, and requiring much skill and dexterity to 
carry them safely to those awaiting their coming to 
satisfy the cravings of hunger. Tacked upon the 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


3 2 4 

walls and suspended from the gas fixtures and in 
every available space, were signs of different char¬ 
acter, some announcing that roast beef would cost 
25 cents, or that roast lamb and green peas were 
worth 30 cents. Every conceivable dish was thus 
advertised, and from the loud voices of the waiters 
as they called for their various orders, Rose con¬ 
cluded that each one was desired by some one. 
Others warned the patrons that the proprietor would 
not be responsible for the loss of hats, and coats, 
umbrellas, etc., desiring each one to look out#for 
his own property; also the notice to “beware of 
pickpockets,” was conspicuously displayed. 

She had ample time to notice all this before Mr. 
Kenroy made his appearance. The proprietor 
proved to be an elderly gentleman, neatly dressed, 
wearing a white necktie. His hair and small side 
whiskers were perfectly white, and his general ap¬ 
pearance was that of a man perfectly well satisfied 
with himself and the world. 

“No; the place is not filled," he declared, as 
Rose stated the object of her visit. “And really, I 
do not think you would care to fill it," he added. 

“I am willing to work, sir." 

“But this work is not pleasant; the hours are long 
and the pay not very large.” 

“I am willing to try it, sir." 

“You do not look like a person accustomed to 
hard work," the propritetor exclaimed, regarding 
her curiously. 


c/7 SISTER'S SMAME 


325 


"Neither am I," answered the girl. "Necessity 
compels me, sir.” 

"Well; come and I will show you what I need a 
girl for, and if you think you can fill the bill, all 
right;” and he led the way to the rear portion of 
the building. Here the girl found all hurry and 
confusion. Huge tanks, into which the hurrying 
waiters piled the dirty dishes, stood against the wall. 
Into these a pipe carried warm water for the pur¬ 
pose of cleaning the plates and other articles of china 
and earthenware, and about them stood a number of 
untidy looking women and girls, each busily en¬ 
gaged in washing the dishes. 

Further on, the cooks, warm and perspiring, filled 
the various orders as they were brought by the wait¬ 
ers, and some women were preparing vegetables for 
their use. 

"This is the work to be done,” explained Mr. 
Kenroy, referring to the cooks’ assistants. "There 
are potatoes to peel, apples and other fruit to pre¬ 
pare for pastry, and many other things to do, which 
the cooks will explain. You will be required at 
5:30 each day, and remain until 9 at night; for 
your services you will receive four dollars per week, 
and your board. Do you think you would care about 
undertaking it?" 

Rose felt her heart sink at the sight. The cooks 
were all colored, the women and girls untidy, even 
dirty. She, who had been accustomed to refinement, 
looked in horror upon the scene. She could not 


3 26 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


bring herself to contemplate association with these 
people. She shuddered and turned away. 

“I do not think I could do it, sir,” she cried. 

Mr. Kenroy smiled. 

"I thought you would find your ardor dampened 
when you realized the labor.” 

"It is not the labor, sir, nor the hours. It is the 
surroundings.” 

“Ah, you could not feel at home among these 
people?" 

“No, sir.” 

They left the kitchen, returning to the front por¬ 
tion of the establishment again Here they found 
the cashier looking decidedly vexed; while a young 
girl stood by with tears in her eyes. 

“This careless creature has just broken another 
lot of dishes," cried the woman. “She will never 
suit, Mr. Kenroy.” 

“How is this, Elsie?” the proprietor looked grave. 

“I was hurried, sir, and could not help it," an¬ 
swered the girl. 

“You know, Elsie, you have done this before. 
You have broken a large number of dishes during 
the past week.” 

“I will pay for them, Mr. Kenroy. I will work 
for nothing until they are all paid for.” 

“I am afraid you would only keep yourself in my 
debt. No; I think you had better find another po¬ 
sition." 

“Oh, don’t discharge me, Mr. Kenroy. Don’t 
turn me away!” 



*A SISTER’S SHAME 


327 


"But you are so careless, Elsie." 

"Put me on some other work, sir. I know you 
need a girl in the kitchen. Let me go there. 1 
can’t break anything there.” 

The proprietor seemed to have conceived a bril¬ 
liant thought. He smiled. 

"That might do,” he said. Then, turning to Rose: 

"Perhaps you could do this girl’s work. I think 
you would be more careful than she." 

"What is it, sir?" 

The proprietor led the way to a short counter 
upon the other side of the room. Here the waiters 
deposited the dishes when first brought from the 
tables, and the duties of the girl had been to remove 
the fragments of meat and other food, scraping 
the dishes into a number of receptacles provided for 
that purpose, and then placing them in baskets to be 
carried to the washing trough in the rear. 

"This will not compel you to associate with any 
of the people and you will be by yourself," said 
Mr. Kenroy, after explaining this to the girl. "The 
pay will be the same,” he added. 

"I can do this, sir,” answered Rose. It was not 
work that she would have selected if she had been 
permitted to choose; but it was something, and she 
accepted it gratefully. 

"Very well; you can begin at once;" and in a 
short time Rose found herself hard at work, and it 
was hard work; but she did not complain; she was 
grateful for the privilege of earning her daily bread. 
Toward seven o’clock the rush of customers slack- 


328 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


ened a little and she was permitted to eat her sup¬ 
per. She had eaten nothing before that day, having 
left home without breakfast. She did not feel the 
want of food, the excitement of the place keeping 
her up. 

At nine she was told she could go to her home, 
and wearied in body the girl took the car that ran 
near her lodgings. 

She opened the door with the key provided by 
Mrs. Wood when they first came, and went to her 
room. The apartment was unoccupied; dark and 
cheerless. 

“Why, where is Lilia?” she thought wonderingly. 

Without stopping to light the lamp, she hurried 
down stairs to Mrs. Wood. 

“Has Lillian been gone long?" she inquired of 
the little woman. 

“Has she not returned yet?" 

“She is not in her room." 

“That is singular. She went out about two 
o’clock. She said she would be back soon." 

Out since two o’clock. Great heavens! Suppose 
something had happened her; suppose she had met 
with accident. The thought was terrible. 

“And did she not say where she was going?" 

“No; only that she was going out for a walk.” 

Going for a walk, and not returned at ten o’clock. 
Something must have happened. She must go and 
find her. 

She hurried to her room, dreary and desolate 
now; she lighted the lamp. Everything was as she 


A SISTER’S SHAME 


3 2 9 

had left it, save that the sister who had been sleep¬ 
ing when she had gone, was not there. She hast- 
ened down stairs again. 

Hark! a ring at the door bell. Perhaps it was 
she, her sister, returning. She threw open the door. 

No. A boy with a note; a boy clad in the uni- 
form of the A. D. T. Co. 

“Miss Rosina Morton,” he said, looking at the ad¬ 
dress upon the envelope. 

“Yes; I am the person.” 

She took the note, with a vague feeling of curi¬ 
osity as to who would send her a message. No one 
knew her assumed name save Mrs. Wood, her hus¬ 
band, the doctor, Mr. Nunnemacher and Lilia. It 
must be from her sister; but why should she send 
her a message? 

“Some one for you?” called Mrs. Wood. 

“Yes—a boy with a message.” 

She hurried upstairs, and then, sitting by the 
table, with the lamp light shining upon her pale 
face, she tore open the envelope and read the mes¬ 
sage; 

“Dear Sister: I cannot stand the life that I 
have been obliged to live any longer. I have tried 
to make myself contented, but all to no use. I am 
not fit to work, I never can, and I cannot sit by and 
see you wearing out your life to support me in idle¬ 
ness; so I have determined to leave you. There is 
one thing I can do, and that thing I have gone to 
do. You will be better without me. I am not 
worthy of your great love, and when this reaches 
you I shall no longer be worthy to be even called 
‘sister.’ The life I am going to lead is condemned 


33° 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


by some; but I shall at least be comfortable and I 
shall try to be happy. Do not try to learn of my 
whereabouts, for even if you found me and were to 
kneel before me begging me to return, I should not 
do so. So, I bid you farewell forever. I hope we 
shall never meet again. Your sister, 

Lilla. ” 

Like one dazed, bewildered, dumbfounded, the 
girl sat, and then, as the fearful truth flashed through 
her mind, as the words of her sister’s letter burned 
into her soul, she uttered one piercing scream, and 
fell unconscious upon the floor; and the gentle night 
wind blew in through the open window, causing 
the lamp to flicker as it shone upon the pale face 
of the unconscious girl; upon the open letter; the 
letter from a lost soul. 


CHAPTER XLII 

INFORMATION WANTED 

William Blackstone was considered one of the 
smartest detectives upon the force; young, ambi¬ 
tious, he had undertaken cases that seemed utterly 
impossible to fathom, and had been completely vic¬ 
torious in nearly all. So, naturally, he had a flatter¬ 
ing opinion of himself and his abilities, and consid¬ 
ered himself a good judge of human nature. 

He did not for an instant imagine that the young 
girl had put him off in order to escape from his su¬ 
pervision; and so, when he walked up into the office 
of the little hotel where he had lodged the girls, he 
expected to find them there, and congratulated him- 



INFORMATION WANTED 


33i 

self with the thought that he would soon know 
their story, and be instrumental in returning them 
to their friends, who, he felt sure, were not aware 
of their whereabouts. He presented his card to the 
clerk. 

“Send it to the ladies’ room, whom I brought 
last night,” he said. 

“The ladies left here not thirty minutes ago.” 

He fell back in astonishment. 

“Left here!” he cried. 

“Yes, sir—took their trunk and drove off in a 
hack. ” 

“Drove off in a hack,” he repeated, hardly able to 
credit the man’s words. 

“Where did they go?” thinking they might have 
left their address. 

“Can’t say, sir. Paid their bill and took the 
hack.” 

So, it was evident that the shy, timid girl wished 
to be left alone; did not desire to tell him her 
story. 

“But I will find her," he muttered, chagrined that 
he should be thus baffled. 

“The name of the driver?” he cried. 

“Don’t know him.” 

“His number?” 

“Did not observe it." 

“Have you ever seen him before?” 

“Not to my recollection.” 

Gnawing his mustache, a habit when thinking, he 
walked down stairs. Outwitted by a girl; but he 


332 


e/W UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


would show her that she could not put him off in 
this manner. 

“I will find the hackman,” he muttered. 

But, after visiting all the public stables, and in¬ 
terviewing all the drivers upon the private stands 
with no result, he came to the conclusion that this 
was easier said than done, for persistent work for 
two days failed to find the man he sought. 

Then he turned to the newspapers. If the girls 
had left their friends there would certainly be some 
advertisement for them in some one of the daily pa¬ 
pers. But no. Nothing of the kind appeared, al¬ 
though he read them all, even going back through 
the files of papers one week before his meeting with 
them. 

“Why should I bother myself about them?" he 
concluded at last. “Perhaps they have met with 
misfortune and have come to the city in search of 
employment and do not wish to have their story 
made known. It does not concern me. I’ll let it 
drop,” and he did, keeping an eye on the papers in 
the meantime, in case something should appear 
there. * 

The weeks passed by. Other cases claimed his 
attention. He had almost forgotten all about the 
girls, when one morning sitting in his rooms, read¬ 
ing the paper, his eye caught the following notice: 

“Information wanted, of two girls, one blonde, 
very pretty, slightly past sixteen years of age^ 
the other tall and beautiful, brunette, past twenty. 
Names, Rose and Lilia Barton. May have assumed 
fictitious ones. Left their home, — day of August. 


INFORMATION IVANTED 


333 


Known to have come direct to Chicago. Any infor¬ 
mation as to their whereabouts will be thankfully 
received and liberally paid for by their uncle, John 
Barton, Room 61, Palmer House.” 

I knew it!” cried Blackstone, slapping his knee, 
and arising eagerly. “They’re my parties. I knew 
I could not be wrong;” and in ten minutes he was 
on his way to John Barton, room 61, Palmer 
House. 

“Yes, Mr. Barton is in," announced the bell boy 
who had taken Mr. Blackstone’s card to room 61. 
“He will see you, sir.” 

Eagerly he followed the boy, and in a short time 
was ushered into the presence of the advertiser. He 
found the room occupied by three men—an old 
gentleman, a young man and a negro. The elderly 
man held his card in his hand. 

“This is Mr. Blackstone?” he inquired. 

“My name, sir.” 

“You are a detective?” 

“My occupation, sir.” 

“Be seated. You bring me news of my nieces?” 

"First to be sure that I am upon the right track, 
sir;” and he described the appearance of the girls. 

“That is Rose,” cried the younger man, as he de¬ 
scribed the one. 

“Lilia’s description," admitted John Barton, as he 
spoke of the other. 

“And you know where they are?” The detective 
observed that the old gentleman seemed weak. His 
face, pale, as though just recovering from a spell of 
sickness. 


334 *NN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

"You do not look strong, sir. Perhaps I had bet- 
ter not tell you what I know.” 

“Great God! Nothing has happened to them, I 
hope;” and the old man fell back in his chair, the 
younger one hurrying to him. 

“Pardon me for expressing myself so awkwardly. 
When last I saw your nieces they were both in the 
best of health.” 

“Then you have seen them?” 

“If my description agrees with your knowledge, I 
have.” 

“Where—when ?” 

The detective related all he knew, dwelling 
briefly on the character of the house where he had 
found them, attaching no blame to the girls, ex¬ 
plaining how they had been enticed there. Told 
how he had taken them to the hotel, and his discom¬ 
fiture in finding they had departed. In conclusion 
he said: 

“I have had the depots under surveillance since; so 
I know they are still in the city, and probably I could 
have found them if I had continued my search; but 
I considered that it did not concern me, and gave 
it up, keeping the facts in my mind, however.” 

“And you think you can find them?” 

“If they are alive, yes. If dead, I can find their 
bodies." 

The young man turned pale. “Pray heaven that 
nothing so terrible has happened!” 

To be certain that the girls you saw were my 
nieces, I have their photographs, taken but a few 


INFORMATION WANTED 33 $ 

months before their departure. Look at them. Are 
these the same as you saw?” 

The detective took the photos. "Yes,” he de¬ 
clared, as the smiling, beautiful faces looked up into 
his own. ‘‘They are the same.” 

"Then, sir, find them for me, and you shall be 
amply rewarded. Spare no expense. I am wealthy, 
and will willingly invest all I possess to bring back 
my poor darlings. You remarked my pale and weak 
appearance. I have but recently recovered from a 
bed of sickness. You probably heard of the acci¬ 
dent upon the Lake Shore road some time ago. I 
was one of the victims; my young friend, Mr. Atkin¬ 
son, also being injured. I came near death’s door, 
and I really believe that my anxiety to find my dar¬ 
lings was the only thing that pulled me through. 
Find them, sir. You will never regret it. You will 
make a new man of me, for I feel that if I do not re- 
co'ver them, it will be my death blow.” 

"Rest easy, sir; your nieces shall be found;” and 
the face of the young man flushed with enthusiasm. 

"Here is money,” and John Barton pressed a 
handful of bills into the young man’s hands. "Do 
not be niggardly with its disposal. There is more 
where that came from.” 

William Blackstone hesitated. 

"But you do not know me, sir. You should not 
repose so much confidence in a stranger." 

"Your face gives me a knowledge of your charac¬ 
ter, sir. I can trust you.” 

Blushing like a school girl the detective bowed 


33 ^ 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


and thanked him, and then left the room, promising 
to biing them news as soon as he could. 

The young man followed him out. 

"About this man, Chatwood,” he said. "Is there 
no way of punishing him?” 

"Not at present; but depend upon me, sir, he 
shall receive his just deserts. Do not mention his 
name to any one. I expect to learn much through 
him, and we must not put him on his guard. Let 
the matter rest with me, and all will be well.” 

"Very good; it shall be as you wish, and to stim¬ 
ulate your efforts, allow me to state that I will, in 
addition to the amount which Mr. Barton will pay, 
add a like sum if you are successful. Rose Barton 
is my betrothed;” and he left the detective stand¬ 
ing in the hall. 

"Ha! So that is how the cat jumps, eh!" thought 
Blackstone, as he walked briskly down the hall. 
"What in the mischief ever caused those girls to 
leave so much love, such an uncle, such a home as 
they must have had? Something peculiar about 
this.” 

True, Mr. William Blackstone, something entirely 
different from anything you have ever had come 
under your experience. 

Blackstone reached the street and looked about 
him for a cab. There are usually a large number of 
these vehicles before the Palmer House, but at this 
particular time there were none there; so the young 
man looks further. 

At last he finds one and is soon inside. 


INFOkMATION IVA NT ED 33? 

"No. —, Washington Street," he cries, and away 
he is whirled. 

He is going to find T. Smith Chatwood. 

************ 

Leaving our investigating friend to proceed upon 
his mission, we will return to Rose. 

For an hour she remained unconscious upon the 
floor. Her scream had not been heard, no one came 
to her. Upon opening her eyes the open letter met 
her gaze, and its contents came back to her in an 
overwhelming torrent of bitter memory. 

“Oh, God!” she cried. “My sister; my darling; 
lost forever!” and in her agony she prayed God to 
remove her from earth or else to blast her memory; 
to remove from her the crimson stain of shame 
which her sister’s action had cast upon her. 

Gradually she recovered her composure, and sit¬ 
ting erect in the rocker, gave herself up to her 
thoughts. First she would search the city and find 
the lost one. Then the words of the letter; “Even 
if you found me and were to kneel before me, beg¬ 
ging me to return, I would not do so;” and she 
drove that thought from her. 

Next she would employ the services of detectives 
and force this shameless sister to give up her de¬ 
grading life; but to do so, her story must be known. 
Mr. Blackstone would find her; besides she had 
no money. No; that was impossible. 

“Must I leave her to perish?” she cried in agony 
of spirit. 

An Unconscious Crime 22 


33» 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"Pray to God to turn her from the evil of her 
ways,” came the answer to her heart. 

Falling upon her knees she addressed a fervent 
prayer to heaven, begging that the Father in mercy 
would change the lost one’s heart and bring her 
back to her. 

The clocks struck four as she knelt. She arose, 
feeling more composed. She believed her prayer 
had been heard and would be answered. 

Then she remembered, she must work. Work 
or starve, for she could not be dependent upon oth¬ 
ers. She must be at the restaurant at 5:30, and the 
way was long; so, without rest, without sleep, with 
a heart filled with sorrow, fit to burst, the sister of 
virtue donned her hat and shawl and went out into 
the early morning to slave, to drudge; preferring 
that to the course taken by the sister—of shame 

She performed her duties mechanically during the 
long day, carefully, precisely. There was no need 
to complain of her work; it was done conscien¬ 
tiously. 

“I have found a treasure,” mused Mr. Kenroy, as 
he watched her, and his mind filled with interest as 
to who this beautiful creature really was, who, 
every inch a lady, refined, modest, willingly slaved 
her young life away in a menial position, when she 
would have been at home in the crowded “salons” 
of society. 

“Some mystery,” he decided, and then thought of 
something else. He had much to think of. The 
weeks dragged by. Rose had told Mrs. Wood that 


INFORMATION WANTED 339 

her sister had found a position which necessitated 
her being away from her. 

A lie. Yet one not calculated to harm. Well 
pleased with the girl’s efforts, Mr. Kenroy had, 
after two weeks, raised her wages to five dollars, and 
had put Elsie to help her, and in the course of a 
month, he surprised her by sending for her one day. 

"Excuse me, Miss Morton; but I have been 
watching you ever since you first started to work foi 
me, and I must confess you interest me. You are 
a lady, there is no doubt about that; your every 
action shows it. You are refined, educated. Tell 
me. Could you not find more congenial employ 
ment than that you are now engaged in?” 

“No, sir. I tried. There was nothing in which 
my education proved of any value to me." 

"And are you really obliged to work as you do?” 

“Either that or starve, sir." 

“Well, I have made up my mind that you are out 
of place where you are. I am ashamed of myself 
for forcing you to do it. I have a vacancy open 
which you can fill, if you will. The only drawback 
to it is the fact that you will be obliged to remain 
here until midnight; but you will not be called upon 
duty until noon. Do you think you would like to 
accept it?” 

“If I am capable, sir.” 

“No fear of that. You know the second story is 
fitted up with private supper rooms. We are obliged 
to have some one to superintend them. There are 
parties you know who drop in after the theatre and 


34<> 


*A'N UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


so on. Your duties will be to keep a complete ac^ 
count of everything supplied them—wines, food> 
and so forth, in fact, to control that branch of my 
business. If you think you would like it, you can 
begin at once. Wages will be ten dollars per 
week. ” 

Tears of gratitude came to the girl’s eyes. 

“Oh, I thank you, sir,” she murmured. 

“Oh, that’s all right, only business, you know;" 
out despite his manner Mr. Kenroy found need of 
the services of his handkerchief. 

“I really should have a man in that position," he 
muttered. “People don’t care about having a woman 
about private supper rooms. It’s a man’s place; 
but what difference does it make? I’ll transfer Jasper 
from the lunch counter to the rooms above; he can 
assist her. I have plenty of money. I may as well 
spend some of it to help a fellow mortal as much as 
I can." 

And so Rose took charge of the private supper 
rooms. 

She found her position a sinecure. There was 
very little to do, save to keep an account of the ma¬ 
terials brought there, and to see that the attendants 
did not neglect their duties. The man, Jasper, a 
pleasant-faced young negro, rendered her valuable 
assistance, and she began to feel almost happy, con¬ 
tented with her lot, and save for the dull feeling 
at her heart, she would almost have forgotten her 
bitter sorrow. It seemed almost like a horrible 
dream. The hours she was supposed to be on duty 



INFORMATION WANTED 


34i 


were from 12 m. to 12 midnight; but she often 
found it much later when she got away. Select the¬ 
atre parties found their way to Kenroy’s restaurant, 
and they did not always depart before the hour of 
twelve. 

It was a bitter, cold night in December. The 
crackling fire in the girl’s cosy little office, or stew¬ 
ard’s room, was decidedly comfortable, and Rose sat 
before it, almost dreading the hour to come, when 
she would be called upon to leave it to return to 
her room in the far-off northwestern part of the city. 

The rooms were all occupied save one. She had 
been very busy. The office was at the head of the 
stairs, just inside the folding glass doors that opened 
out upon the staircase that led to the street, the 
entrance being separate from the one to the restau¬ 
rant. Consequently, every one who passed either 
way must go past the door of the room. 

She was thinking of home this night, of Uncle 
John, of her lover. The tears stood in her eyes as 
she gazed into the glowing coals, seeming to see 
loving faces there in their bright depth, appearing 
to hear familiar voices in the winds that blew down 
the chimney. Voices on the stair broke into her 
thoughts—merry, careless voices, both masculine 
and feminine. Some party coming for a midnight 
supper. They passed the door, they were proceed¬ 
ing along the hall. She heard the voice of Jasper 
directing them to the unoccupied room, and soon 
the memorandum of their order was brought her. 
Champagne, oysters, cutlets, an extensive meal and 


342 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


an expensive one. An hour passed by. The or¬ 
ders for champagne grew numerous. 

“De party in No. 8 is habin’ a good time,” re¬ 
marked Jasper. “Dey is punishin’ de 'sham,’” and 
he left the room. 

Soon the sound of angry voices came to her, then 
the sound of breaking glass. 

She hurries into the hall. 

Jasper was coming toward her. 

“Oh, dey is raisin’ de debbil in No. 8!” he cried. 
"Two of de men am firin’ glasses at each oder: I 
am goin’ for a policeman.” 

"I will stop this,” murmured Rose, hurrying to 
the room. 

The voices grew louder as she drew near and 
opened the door. 

"What does this mean?” she demanded sternly, 
as she saw two men, one pale and determined, the 
other with his back toward her, both with coats 
torn and shirts and collars crushed and rumpled. 

They looked at her as she spoke, and ceased their 
struggle. 

She turned and looked at the women of the party, 
and then, with a sudden clutching at her throat, a 
gasp as if for breath, stood as if petrified; for there 
before her, elegantly dressed in silks and furs, sat 
Lilia. 

Her sister! 

Lilia who preferred elegant shame to virtuous pov¬ 
erty. Lilia who had crushed the tender heart of 
her loving sister. 


AN UNSUCCESSFUL EFFORT 


343 


They stood gazing into each other’s eyes for an in¬ 
stant, then Rose advanced toward her. 

“Sister,” she murmured, holding out her arms. 
“Sister! Thank God, I have found you.” 

The sister shudders and turns from her. She 
draws her sealskin cloak more closely to her, and 
while the eager, loving one stands ready to receive 
her in her arms, ready, aye, willing to forgive, she 
hurries from the room. 

She cannot face that other. 

“My God!” moans the crushed, heart-broken girl. 
“Gone; lost to me again.” She feels her brain reel¬ 
ing; she grasps at a chair for support, but it is too 
far away, and she falls upon the carpet, seeing as 
she becomes unconscious, the face of the man who 
has had his face turned from her—a hated face. She 
knows it well. 

The face of T. Smith Chatwoodt 

Jasper is bending over her when she recovers. 

“Where are they?" she gasps. 

“All got away, Missy. I couldn’t find a police¬ 
man, and de lady wid de sealskin cloak paid de 
bill." _ 

CHAPTER XLIII 

AN UNSUCCESSFUL EFFORT 

A drive of fifteen minutes brought Blackstone, the 
detective, to the office of T. Smith Chatwood, No. 
—, Washington street, for be it understood, this wor¬ 
thy gentleman had an office, a place of business in 
the great city of Chicago. The sign upon the di- 



344 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


rectory of rooms in the building informed you that 
T. Smith Chatwood occupied room No. io, upon 
the second floor, and beneath his name was the one 
line: "Dramatic and Variety Agent." In fact, he 
supplied the many variety theatres in the northwest, 
Hurley, Duluth and other towns, with talent, prin¬ 
cipally females, receiving a liberal percentage from 
the many aspirants for histrionic fame, who were 
willing for the most part to pay the exorbitant rates 
which he charged, for the privilege of appearing up¬ 
on the stage, salary being no object to many 
of them. 

And then, the managers of the various "dives” 
understood the mercenary character of the man, and 
needing fresh faces, attractive forms, to lure the 
men from the woods to their doors and keep them 
there as long as they had money, also paid him lib¬ 
erally for the service he rendered them, in enticing 
young, foolish girls to leave their homes and become 
inmates of their dens. 

Well could Mr. Chatwood afford to wear expen¬ 
sive diamonds and dress in the height of fashion. 
He made money and spent it, too. 

He had been frequently troubled by the police, 
and occasionally an irate parent caused him some 
little difficulty, but he managed to escape imprison¬ 
ment and still carried on his business. 

He was lolling in an easy chair, his feet upon a 
desk, a fragrant cigar in his mouth, as Blackstone 
entered. 

He grew slightly pale as he saw who his visitor 

































* 





















■ 




























' 


























. 



































THE MEETING OF THE SISTEKS.—Page 347. 






















































































































































































































345 


AN UNSUCCESSFUL EFFORT 

was, but recovered himself and heartily welcomed 
him, pushing forward a chair. 

“Ah, come in,” he cried. “Trying to make myself 
comfortable. Pretty cold out. Have a cigar?” 

The detective sat down and accepted the cigar. 
He loathed the man, but had his own ideas about 
carrying on his business. He believed Chatwood 
knew something about the two girls, knowing he 
would be likely to keep track of them for his own 
mercenary purposes, so he feigned a friendship he 
did not feel. 

“What brings you here?” asked the man careless¬ 
ly, really disturbed. 

“Have you read the morning papers?” 

“Just looked over ’em; why?” 

For answer, the detective drew the paper contain¬ 
ing John Barton’s advertisement, and spread it upon 
the desk. 

“Read that," he said, pointing to the notice. 

“Well, what of it?” asked the villain, after read¬ 
ing it. 

“Does it not strike you that you know something 
about it?” 

“Don’t think I do.” 

"/ think you do.” 

“What are you driving at, Blackstone?” He had 
learned the detective’s name from a hack driver 
who had been driving him one day, passing the de¬ 
tective upon the street. 

“You remember when last we met?” 

“Yes,” nervously. 


346 


e/W UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“You recall the two girls?” 

“Well?” 

"This is in reference to them.” 

“You don’t say so.” 

"Their uncle has come to Chicago to find them. 
He has lots of money. He proposes to spend every 
cent of it, but what he will be successful.” 

“What have I to do with it?" 

“You know I have been to see the uncle. I have 
told him all I know. He is anxious to find the 
man who enticed his nieces to a house of ill-fame.” 

“Well, suppose he finds me?” 

“I think you know, Chatwood. It would go hard 
* with you if he should prosecute.” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” 

“You don’t feel as indifferent as you would try 
to make me believe. Come, Chatwood. There is 
money in this. I am on the case and you know 
me. My reputation is pretty good. I am sure to 
find the girls anyway, living or dead. I can find 
them quicker through you. I am willing to give 
you a share of the profits.” 

The fellow considered. 

“How do you suppose I am to find them?” he 
said at last. 

“I think you know where they are this minute.” 

“You do?” 

“I do." 

“What makes you think so?” 

“Never mind that. I have my reasons.” 

“Well, I don’t,” doggedly. 


AN UNSUCCESSFUL EFFORT 


347 


"Look here, Chatwood. I know you, and your 
business thoroughly. You have always managed to 
slip through the fingers of justice up to the present 
time, because no one ever cared to prosecute you 
rigorously. But you have struck the wrong man 
this time; in fact, two men, for the betrothed lover 
of one of the girls accompanies the uncle. Now, I 
think you are at least a sensible man, and will find 
it to your advantage to tell me what you know.” 

"And if I should happen to know something about 
them; if I could tell you where to lay your hands 
on them?" 

"You will find it worth your while to speak." 

"You’ll do the right thing?" 

"Sure." 

"Well then, I know where the girls are.” 

"I thought so," and the detective congratulated 
himself. 

"I can lay my hands on either of them in an 
hour." 

"Well?" 

"I can show you where they are." 

"That’s what I came for." 

"And you suppose I am going right now to do it, 
to get you your reward without looking out for my¬ 
self?" 

"What are you driving at?" 

"This: I am perfectly willing to give you a tip, 
providing I am sure of getting my ‘divvy.’ How 
do I know you will keep your word?” 

The detective felt himself growing angry. 



348 


e AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"Look here, Chatwood,” he cried. "I can find these 
girls without your assistance. This city is not so 
large but what it can be searched, and money will 
do much. As I said before, you can render me as¬ 
sistance. You have admitted that you could lay 
your hands upon the girls, and a sytsem of ‘shadow¬ 
ing’ will reveal your secret. If you are not with me 
you are against me, and I shall not hesitate to push 
you to the wall. It would not be a difficult matter 
to do it, and you know it. Now, I will make my 
terms. I will give you fifty dollars down, if you will 
reveal to me the whereabouts of the girls, one hun¬ 
dred more when I find you have stated correctly. 
Or I will carry on the search myself and put you in 
the hole if I can. Which will you do?” 

The villain looked the detective in the eye. He 
saw resolution depicted there. He knew he would 
do as he said. So he answered: 

“I’ll accept your terms.” 

"Good. You are no fool ;” and he produced the 
money. 

"Now, where are they?” laying fifty dollars upon 
the table. 

The fellow picked up the money before answering, 
then he said: 

"The oldest is employed at Kenroy’s restaurant. 
You can find her there at any time. The other is 
one of Madame Ducrow’s assistants.” 

The detective jumped to his feet. 

"You don’t mean to tell me that the youngest has 
gone to the bad?" 


*AN UNSUCCESSFUL EFFORT 


349 


"You asked for information; you’ve got it.” 

"Are you to blame for this? Did you persuade 
her to do this?” sternly. 

"She was willing enough. In fact, she mentioned 
it herself first.” 

"Tell me all.” He was agitated. He had not 
expected this. 

"Well, it seems the girls were in hard luck, had 
to take in shirts or something, in order to live. 
The youngest grew tired of it, and told me of it, 
when I met her on the street by accident one day, 
and as she wanted to return to the Madame’s, it 
wasn’t my place to prevent her.” 

"Is this the truth?” 

"You can easily find it out by going there, and 
asking her.” 

"By God! I hope for your sake it is,” cried the 
detective. “For if I find you have wilfully enticed 
her to her ruin it will go hard with you.” 

Chatwood turned pale. 

"To prove to you that I am willing to do the right 
thing, I’ll go myself and bring her here,” he cried. 

"You can meet her, and take her to the uncle.” 
He spoke eagerly. 

"You will do this?” 

"You can depend on me.” 

"Very well. I will meet you here in two hours. 
I am now going to see the other. When I return I 
shall expect to find you here with the girl.” 

"I’ll be here.” He had already arisen from his 
chair and was putting on his overcoat. 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


Blackstone left him, and re-entering the hack, di¬ 
rected the driver to take him to Kenroy’s restaurant. 

On the way he sat moody and abstracted. 

"Gone to the bad,” he mused. "Wilfully gone to 
her ruin. What will the uncle say? It will be a 
death blow to the old man, I fear. I must try to 
keep it from him. He must not know it.” 

Then he thought of Chatwood, and his brow grew 
stern. 

“The scoundrel. If he plays me false I’ll never 
rest until I see him behind prison bars. He de¬ 
serves it. I’ll see that he gets it.” 

Arriving at the restaurant, he entered the place 
and was soon closeted with the proprietor, whom he 
knew well. 

"The girl is here,” he announced, after Blackstone 
had described Rose. "She is not a criminal, I hope.". 

"Far from it,” announced Blackstone. "More 
sinned against than sinning, I take it. Can I see 
her?” 

"Certainly—this way;" and he led the way to the 
floor above. 

Mr. Kenroy opened the door of the girl’s private 
room, and there the detective saw her, paler, thin¬ 
ner than when he had last seen her, but the same 
beautiful girl. She recognized him at once, and col¬ 
ored. 

"You remember me?” he said, removing his hat 
and going toward her. 

"Could I forget you?” she murmured. 

Mr. Kenroy left the apartment. 


AN UNSUCCESSFUL EFFORT 


351 


"Yet you tried to avoid me.” 

"If you knew all you would not blame me.” 

"I know all now.” 

She had resumed her chair, after his entrance. 
She now started to her feet. 

"You know all? What? How?” 

He showed her the daily paper, observing her 
changing color as she read her uncle’s appeal for 
knowledge. 

"I have come to take you back to your uncle— 
your lover,” softly spoke the detective. 

"My lover! Charley? Is he here?” 

"Yes and awaits your coming." 

She was weeping, her head resting upon her 
hand. 

"It can never be," she sobbed. 

"Oh, yes it can; it must be,” he said. 

"You do not know all. You do not understand. 
My sister—" 

"She, too, is found. I know all connected with 
her sad mistake.” 

"You know where my sister is—Lilia?” 

"Yes, and in a short time she will be clasped in 
her uncle’s arms.” 

"No—no,” sobbed the girl frantically. "He will 
turn from her in loathing. He will not recognize 
her. ” 

"He need not be told. It would be a charity to 
keep it from him.” 

The girl relapsed into silence, silence broken 
now and then by a soft, gentle sob. The detective 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


3^2 

stands behind her chair; his soft voice speaks 
pleadingly. “Your friends have grieved sorely for 
you; have risked much—even life itself to find 
you. Now they await you, with eager, expectant 
hearts. The lover awaits his betrothed. With anx¬ 
ious expectancy the uncle longs to clasp you to his 
heart. You will come. You will not hasten those 
feeble footsteps in their journey to the grave.” 

She makes no answer—only sobs. Then he tells 
her of the railroad accident; how nearly the relative 
and lover met their death; tells her of the ill health 
of the uncle; pictures him, pale, weak, anxious, 
works so upon her sympathies that at last she throws 
her head forward upon the desk and sobs as if her 
heart would break. 

“Oh, heartless creature that I am,” she cries; 
“thinking only of my own great trouble, heedless to 
thought of the sorrow my action must cause. I 
shrink in shame from the thought of facing the kind 
eyes of dear Uncle John. I cannot think of the 
other of him whom I love. God help me, yes, I 
love; and for whose sake I left home, left all, tak¬ 
ing my innocent sister, who can never be the same 
as before. It is my heedless action that has caused 
it all. Can I ever be forgiven?” 

“They await your coming, to welcome you as one 
returned from the dead; not to censure you for your 
action.” 

“But my sister; will she return?” 

"By this time her present life must have grown 


r 


AN UNSUCCESSFUL EFFORT 353 

hateful to her. She will surely give it up gladly, 
rejoiced at the opportunity." 

She arose and dried her eyes. 

"I will go,” she said simply. 

"I knew it," he cried joyfully. "Come at once.” 

“No, not now. We left home together; we must 
return together; besides, I must see Mr. Kenroy 
and tell him of my intention. Go you, and bring 
my sister to me. Bring Lilia. Tell her I shall 
not reproach her; I shall never say aught to cause 
her shame or sorrow. We will go to those who love 
us, and bending on our knees before our relative, ask 
his forgiveness, praying at the same time that heaven 
will grant us pardon. Go. I will await you here." 

“It shall be as you wish," he cries. “You will 
not seek to escape me again?" He says this as the 
memory of the former experience in the hotel comes 
to him. 

She flushes. “No; I do not wish to evade you 
now." 

He leaves her, and hastens to Chatwood’s office. 
He finds that individual has net returned yet. The 
door is fastened. He waits for an hour and is grow¬ 
ing impatient as he walks the corridor. Ah, foot¬ 
steps on the stairs, but single ones. It is Chat- 
wood, but alone. 

“The girl, where is she?" cries the eager detec¬ 
tive. 

“Come inside," answers the man, unlocking the 
door. 

An Unconscious Crime 23 


354 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

"Come; where is the girl?" repeats the detective. 

Chatwood.throws himself into the chair. He looks 
worried. 

“Before I tell you, Blackstone, I don’t want you 
to censure me. I am not to blame. I have had 
nothing to do with this.” 

“With what?” He is growing alarmed. 

“I went to Madame Ducrow’s, expecting to find 
the girl there. When I spoke about her, I found 
she had left the place two days ago. ” 

“Left the place?” 

“Yes. You must know, nearly a week ago, we 
went to the theatre, the girl, a fellow by the name 
of Amroyd, another lady and myself. After the the¬ 
atre we went to Kenroy’s for supper. Amroyd and 
I had a dispute that ended in a fight. During the 
trouble the door opened and in came the sister. The 
girl Lilia escaped, refusing to recognize her. She 
has been worrying about it ever since, and two 
days ago left the house with this fellow, Felix 
Amroyd. ” 

“Where has she gone?” 

"To Buenos Ayres, the home of her admirer.” 

“To South America?” 

“Yes.” 

“Who told you this?” 

“Madame Ducrow.” 

“Is this straight?" 

“True as Gospel, Blackstone.” 

“How did she go?” 

“By rail to New York; then by steamer.” With a 


AN UNSUCCESSFUL EFFORT 


35S 

quick gesture Bl-ackstone picked up the paper lying 
upon the desk before him, and hastily glanced 
over its pages. Then, with a cry he turned to 
Chatwood. 

"Come,” he said. “We may be able to stop 
them.” 

"Where are you going?” 

“To the agent of the Cunard line, which is the 
only one making direct connections for South Amer¬ 
ican ports.” 

They hastened to the office of the agent. 

"When does your next steamer sail, making con¬ 
nections for Buenos Ayres?" 

"At three to-day, connecting at Liverpool with 
South American steamship Co’s steamer 'Rio De 
Janeiro.’" 

A glance at the clock; just two; there might yet 
be time. 

"Can you telegraph for me at (Jnce to your prin¬ 
cipals in New York?” 

"Certainly, if it is important." 

"It is highly so. I am a detective." 

Tick—tick—tick. The message flew over the 
wires: 

"Jas. Buchanan & Co., agents Cunard Line, New 
York city: Stop blonde lady and male escort, 
bound for Buenos Ayres; man’s name, Felix Amroyd, 
lady young, very pretty. Hold them until you re¬ 
ceive advices. William Blackstone, 

Pinkerton Detective." 

An hour passed; then the agent called the detec¬ 
tive and handed him a message: 


356 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“Steamer sailed an hour before receiving your dispatch. 
Gent and lady on board. Only couple on trip. Names , 
Felix Amroyd and wife. 

James Buchanan & Co., 
Agents , Cunard Line Steamship Co." 

“How can this be? It is only three o’clock now. 
Your ship does not sail until three. Our message 
was sent at two.” The detective spoke angrily. 

“Difference in the time, sir. New York runs East¬ 
ern Standard, which is one hour faster than Chi¬ 
cago. Two o’clock here is three o’clock in New 
York.” 

“D—n standard time” and Blackstone went out 
upon the street. 


CHAPTER XLIV 

BLACKSTONE EXPLAINS 

“You see I told you the truth,” said Chatwood as 
they reached the street. 

“Yes.” 

“You can’t blame me.” 

“I don’t," he answers mechanically. He is think¬ 
ing. 

“I have done all I could.” 

I know it. You’ll get your money to-night.” 

“That is not our bargain.” 

“Have you delivered both girls?" 

“No; but I would if the other hadn’t skipped.” 

“Well, then, you haven’t filled your part of the 
contract. My word is good, and you’ll get your 



BLACKSTONE EXPLAINS 


357 


money to-night;” and without further parley Black- 
stone left him. 

“Where will I see you?” called the fellow. 

“At your office at seven.” 

He hurried along, his head bowed. He had not 
yet determined what to do; but he was turning the 
matter over in his brain. 

“That’s it,” he cried at last, jubilantly, and quick¬ 
ened his footsteps. He had hit upon a scheme 
which he thought would work. Reaching the Palmer 
House, he sent up his card, for the second time 
that day, and soon stood before his anxious em¬ 
ployers. 

“Well; what success?” cried John Barton. 

“The best in the world.” 

“Have you found them?” Atkinson speaks. 

“Exactly. ” 

“Thank God!” both. 

“Are they with you?” faintly inquires John Bar¬ 
ton. He is overcome with joy. 

“Not with me, but not far off. Sit down. I’ll ex¬ 
plain matters to you.” He has himself remained 
standing. The uncle notices this, and apologizes 
for his thoughtlessness. Blackstone takes a chair. 

“Now if you will give me your attention, I’ll tell 
you what I have discovered to-day.” 

“We are waiting, sir.” 

“When I left you, I went to a man who I 
thought might know something about the girls; 
the man Chatwood I told you of this morning. As 
he was the first to meet them upon their arrival 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


358 

here, I thought it likely he would keep track of 
them. I found my conjectures were right. He 
knew of their whereabouts. By promising him one 
hundred and fifty dollars I induced him to tell me, 
paying him fifty on account, the other hundred to 
be paid when I found he had told the truth. I went 
to the place where he informed me the eldest was 
employed and found her. She is willing to return 
to you, although she naturally feels a little back¬ 
ward about facing you.” 

"That need not trouble her. i shall not reproach 
her,” cries the uncle. 

“I shall be only too glad to see her face again,” 
the lover exclaims. 

“So I told her, and she is now waiting for you.” 

“But the youngest, Lilia?” and John Barton grows 
pale as he speaks, thinking something horrible is 
to come. 

“Well, I was not quite so successful in her case. 
I know where she is, but can’t lay hands on her 
just yet. You can see, gentlemen, the girls have 
had a hard time of it since they came here; have 
had a struggle to exist; so they separated, Rose 
working hard for a living, while Lilia had an easier 
time; in fact she got married." 

A lie; but told for a good purpose. 

“Married!" The men are astounded. 

“Yes, married, and if you had arrived two days 
ago, you would have found her here, but I found 
when I made inquiry that she had accompanied her 
husband to his home in Buenos Ayres, South Amer- 


TILACKSTONE EXPLAINS 


359 


ica. I hurried to the telegraph office, or rather to 
the office of the steamship company, here in the 
city, just as soon as I heard of it; but the ship had 
sailed an hour before my message, asking the people 
in New York to hold them, arrived,and so your young¬ 
est niece is on her way to the capital of the Argen¬ 
tine Republic. Here is the answer to my dispatch. ” 
He spreads it out before them. “You can still stop 
them at Liverpool.” 

With sinking hearts the two men read it; then 
Atkinson exclaims: 

“No; we will not do that, she is not a criminal. 
We can follow her there. It will be a nice wedding 
tour for myself and Rose. We must be married at 
once and take the next steamer for Buenos Ayres.” 

“I do not think I could stand the voyage," says 
the uncle sadly. 

“Nonsense. It will do you good; nothing like sea 
air for an invalid;” answers the lover cheerfully. 

“But now for Rose,” he adds. 

“Yes, we must go to Rose,” and John Barton 
arouses himself. 

“I am waiting to conduct you,” announces the de¬ 
tective. 

Jupiter has been absent during the conversation; 
but he makes his appearance at this juncture. They 
tell him what they have learned. The negro shows 
his white teeth in his pleasure. 

“Glad dey is found," he says. “Kinder sorry I 
wasn’t heah to wish Miss Lilia good luck on her 
weddin’ day. What am her name now?” 


360 <an unconscious crime 

John Barton refers to the telegram. 

“Mrs. Felix Amroyd,” he answers. 

“Amroyd—Amroyd. Whar did I yeah dat name 
afore?” but he gives up thinking. He knows he 
has heard it somewhere, but he cannot tell where at 
that moment. 

They leave the hotel and take a carriage to Ken- 
roy’s restaurant. Arriving there, Blackstone ushers 
them into one of the private rooms; he wishes to 
speak to the girl before she sees her uncle. 

They order refreshments from the waiter, who 
comes to them, and Blackstone leaves them. 

He finds Rose awaiting him. 

“I have told Mr. Kenroy,” she says. “He dislikes 
to part with my services. I told him I was going 
home." 

“That was right.” 

But my sister, Lilia; is she outside waiting for 
me to bid her enter?" 

The detective tells her all. He springs forward 
in time to save her from falling fainting upon the 
floor, as she hears and comprehends his words. She 
soon recovers. 

“I cannot return home now," she moans. “I can¬ 
not go without her." 

He reasons with her; he tells her of the fabrica¬ 
tion he has manufactured. She hears him with a 
dazed, wondering look in her eyes. 

You told them she was married; you lied to 
them to shield her, and benefit me?" 


SLACKS TONE EXPLAINS 


36 I 

“Yes. I thought it best. What could I do un¬ 
der the circumstances?” 

She looks at him with a look of reproach. 

Did you not think of the terrible blow the truth 
must inflict when all is known?” 

Again I say it need not be known.” 

You say my uncle has determined upon going to 
South America after her. W^ll he not know it 
when he arrives?” 

Excuse me, Miss; I would remind you that there 
is a means of communication by cable to Buenos 
Ayres, via England. I shall communicate with Mr. 
Felix Amroyd by this means; so, when your uncle 
arrives, they will be upon their guard. Probably 
they will marry; who knows? Your sister is a 
charming girl.” 

“Will you do this?” 

"I pledge you my word.” 

She gave him her hand. 

”1 believe you,” she said. 

"Will you receive your friends now?” 

"Are they here, in this building?” 

"Not fifty feet from where you stand." 

She turns and grasps the desk for support. 

"I had no idea you would bring them here. It is 
so sudden.” 

"I thought it best,” he murmurs. 

She recovers herself. 

"Yes; bring them here,” she cries. 

He hurries to the ropm where they are awaiting 
his coming, 


362 *AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

“She waits for you," he said simply. They rose 
eagerly, and in a few moments the sobbing girl is 
clasped in the arms of those who love her—those 
she loves. 

Blackstone stands outside the door. He does not 
care to intrude upon the scene. He is a sympa¬ 
thetic young man. He knows the scene will affect 
him, and then, again, it is not his place. 

We will follow his example. Stand outside the 
closed door, leaving the girl to sob upon the breast 
of her uncle, then her lover; then to clasp the 
hand of Jupiter, who feels somewhat neglected be¬ 
cause he is not noticed at once. 

He remarks, sot to voce: 

“Miss Lilia done got married. Don’t tink it will 
be long ’fore de oder does de same.” 

An observant fellow is Jupiter. 


CHAPTER XLV 

A CLIPPING FROM TWO NEWSPAPERS 

“Our readers will doubtless remember the ac¬ 
count of the rescue of two young girls from Mad¬ 
ame Ducrow’s noted establishment, by William 
Blackstone, one of Pinkerton’s ablest detectives. 
We published a complete account of the affair at 
the time it occurred. We take great pleasure in 
stating that the relatives of the girls have found 
them. One has become married to a wealthy South 
American gentleman, and has gone with her hus¬ 
band to his home, in Buenos Ayres. The other, 
we hear, is shortly to be united in the “Holy 
Bonds/’ with a Mr. Charles Atkinson. May for- 



A CUPPING FROM TWO PAPERS 363 

tune smile upon them in their journey through life, 
and may the bitter experience to which the ladies 
have been brought face to face, but teach them the 
true side of life and make their present happiness 
all the more enjoyable. We understand the couple, 
when married, propose going to South America, to 
join the sister. We cry, ‘Bon voyage.’ ” 

* * * * * ******* 
An Item of Interest. 

"Among the passengers for Liverpool on board the 
steamer ‘Nubian Monarch,’ which sailed to-day, 
were Mr. John Barton, Mr. Charles Atkinson and 
wife, and Jupiter Solomon, Mr. Barton’s servant. 
They are en route to Buenos Ayres, Argentine Re¬ 
public, via England, the trip being the wedding 
tour of the Atkinsons, who have been recently mar¬ 
ried. Mr. Barton has, during his long life, visited 
and resided in many parts of the world, having been 
a resident of Melbourne, Australia, for many years. 
They propose to remain in our sister Republic for 
a short time only." 


BOOK IV—CHAPTER XLVI 

A CABLEGRAM 

Night in Buenos Ayres. 

The moon, in its full, reflects its rays upon the 
waters of the Rio de la Plata, or river of silver, justi¬ 
fying the title, for it is truly a river of silver to-night. 

The broad, granite-paved avenues are thronged 
with people, principally amusement-seekers, and the 
brilliantly lighted entrances to the Victoria theatre, 
the Colon opera house, the Franco-Argentine theatre, 
are blocked with the gayly dressed, voluble, French, 



3 6 4 


cAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


English, Spanish and Italian population,who frequent 
each. It is a beautiful night. Never has the capital city 
of the Argtenine Republic appeared to greater ad¬ 
vantage, and the discontented wanderer, beholding 
it in all its beauty, might well say: “Here will I 
tarry. Earth has provided a resting place at last." 

Upon the crowded avenue two men are approach¬ 
ing each other, each unconscious of the other, each 
entirely dissimilar in appearance; one tall, erect, 
carrying himself with a semi-military carriage. A 
man with hair white as the Alpine snows, smoothly 
shaven, save for the carefully trained white mus¬ 
tache; a man with eyes stern and terrible in anger, 
when in repose soft and womanly, with an almost 
beseeching, appealing glance, as if asking for some¬ 
thing apparently beyond his reach;—something that 
never comes. The other, short and stout; one 
would almost say obese, for his corpulence is plainly 
discernable to even a casual observer; apparently 
of nearly the same age as the other, wearing En¬ 
glish side whiskers and mustache, which at one 
time must have been decidedly of that color des¬ 
ignated as “red,” but which are now streaked with 
silver. A man who looked upon all about him with 
a self-satisfied air, as if perfectly contented, caring 
little if the world moved on or not, satisfied with 
himself and the world at large. The first is known 
as Senor Andrew Grey, judge of the municipal 
court; the other, Arthur Amroyd, an Englishman, 
well known in the South American metropolis as 
^ rpaii of wealth. They meet. 


A CABLEGRAM 365 

“Ah, Grey! Beautiful evening.” 

“Magnificent.” 

“You can talk of your countries; but this one 
suits me, I can tell you. Rather warm sometimes, 
but a glorious climate, taking it as a whole.” 

"Ye>; if one does not mind occasional epidemics, 
in the form of yellow fever and so forth. I like it. 

I have found contentment here; I am well liked 
and respected.” 

“Save by the poor devils who have been brought 
before you and are now languishing in prison.” 

“None can say but what my decisions have been 
just, Amroyd." 

“No. You are as Shylock says a righteous judge. 
No one can gainsay that.” 

“But, to change the subject; any news from the 
wandering son?” 

“Oh, Felix? Yes. A cablegram reached me 
some time ago announcing that he had taken passage 
for home upon the ‘Rio De Janeiro,’ which left 
Liverpool upon the 16th instant. I believe she is 
due in a day or so.” 

“And I presume you will welcome home the prod¬ 
igal, kill the fatted calf, marry him, and so on to 
the end of the chapter. 91 

The father heaved a sigh. 

“Yes; I suppose so, providing he will have it 
that way. Which way are you going?" He evident¬ 
ly wished to change the subject. 

“To the telegraph office; official business messages 
from Montevideo.” 


3 66 


<MN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"I will accompany you. No objections, I hope?” 

"None at all. I shall be glad of your company." 

Amroyd links his arm in that of the judge, and 
they proceed upon their way. 

Evidently Andrew Grey has very important busi¬ 
ness, for he is absent in the private office of the 
manager for a long time. Arthur Amroyd occupies 
his waiting moments in reading the official notices 
posted about the room, and smoking. Finally the 
judge makes his appearance. 

"I suppose you thought I would never come?" he 
says with a smile. 

"Oh, men upon official business need much time, 
sometimes." 

They turn to leave the place. 

"Excuse me, is not this Mr. Arthur Amroyd?" 

It is the operator who speaks. 

"Yes; why?" 

"We have received a cablegram, sir." 

"For me?" 

"Not exactly; for your son." 

"For Felix? Got here before he did. Let me see 
it." 

"I was going to deliver it to you, sir. I suppose 
you will hand it to him?" 

"Certainly." 

The operator hands him the dispatch. 

"Probably important," mutters the father and he 
opens it. 

"To Mr. Felix Amroyd, Buenos Ayres, Argentine 
Republic. Sister and relatives of lady on their way 


A CABLEGRAM 


367 


to Buenos Ayres. When they arrive, you must be 
married. Think you understand me. William 
Blackstone, Pinkerton detective.” 

Thrice the parent reads the message. He cannot 
understand it. 

"When they arrive, you must be married,” he re¬ 
peats. "Why,” he cries aloud, then growing angry, 
"Who in the devil is this William Blackstone, 
Pinkerton detective, who dictates to my son? Why 
must he be married? Who is the lady?” 

The judge smiles. 

"Are you asking me for information? he inquires. 

"Look at this. Perhaps you can explain it.” 

Andrew Grey reads the telegram. 

"I can scarcely understand it,” he says. "Proba¬ 
bly your son can explain it upon his arrival. 

The father turns to the operator. 

"Any news of the ‘Rio De Janeiro? 

"Telegram received an hour ago, sir. She is at 
the mouth of the Plata. Passengers will land at 
noon to-morrow.” 

"Noon to-morrow. I’ll be on hand to welcome 
my boy and hand him this peremptory order, from 
William Blackstone. Come, Grey.” 

The two men proceed on their way homeward. 
They part at Amroyd’s residence. 

"Stop in, Grey, at eleven,” cries the father. I 
wish you to be with me when I meet my son.” 

"Gladly. I will be at leisure.” 

And the judge proceeds on his way home. 

He resides some distance from the house of his 


368 <AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

friend, in an opposite direction from the other. 
He is unmarried, an old Spanish woman doing the 
work of his small establishment. His wants are 
but few, and the old woman serves him faithfully. 

He smiles grimly as he hastens homeward. He 
can see more in the cablegram than the doting 
father. He knows young Amroyd. In his capacity 
as municipal judge he has been forced to fine the 
young man for many escapades in which he has 
been a leading spirit. 

Yes; he thinks he can understand this cablegram 
which comes too soon. He mutters as he walks 
along: 

Another act of youthful folly. Some young girl 
of good parents, probably highly connected, enticed 
from home by the young scoundrel. Detective on 
the track has ferreted the matter out. Parents after 
him. Detective sends warning. I see it all; but 
it is better to let Amroyd find it out for himself." 

He has reached a dark portion of the street. It is 
now nearly eleven o’clock. Suddenly he fancies 
he can hear stealthy footsteps behind him. Purely 
fancy, for he finds upon turning quickly that there 
is no one in sight, and no possible place to hide, 
unless it is up in the trees, and one must be quick 
to take advantage of the protecting foliage. There 
are not many large trees in Buenos Ayres; so the 
trunks are not large enough to hide a man’s body. 

He hastens along. There is surely some one fol¬ 
lowing him. He hears the footsteps the second 
time. 


A CABLEGRAM 


369 


"Fancy,” he mutters, and pays no further atten¬ 
tion to it. His mind wanders off upon other sub¬ 
jects. The wistful appealing look in the large eyes 
grows more apparent; but no one sees it. Tears 
stand in them before long. So engaged is he that 
he fails to hear the hurrying footsteps behind him. 
He does not see the dark form creeping behind 
him like a shadow. The moon has been hidden 
under a cloud. It now breaks forth and in the bright 
rays we can see the glitter of something in the 
hand of the stealthy follower. The judge does not 
observe this. He is thinking. His step has uncon¬ 
sciously grown slower. He stops for a moment. He 
is looking at the silver queen of night. His lips are 
moving, praying, perhaps. The dark shadow is al¬ 
most upon him. 

A scream sounds out upon the still night air. 

"Turn, senor, or you die.” 

It is a woman’s voice. He turns in time to avoid 
the murderous blow of the glittering poniard ; in 
time to save his life. 

"Maledicto!” mutters the defeated murderer, and 
he turns and flies. 

Andrew Grey looks after the receding form in 
dazed surprise. 

It has all been so sudden, that he can scarcely 
realize the danger from which he has escaped. 

He has been saved, and by a woman. Her words 
have saved his life. But where is she? 

He retraces his steps. He sees a dark form lean- 

An Unconscious Crime 24 


37o 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


ing against a high wall that encloses the grounds 
and residence of some one of wealth. 

Yes, it is a woman, and in the moonlight he sees 
that she is robed in the sombre garb of a sister of 
charity. She has given the warning. It must have 
come from her. 

“You have saved me from the assassin,” he says, 
removing his hat reverently. 

“I am so thankful," she murmurs. “I came in 
time." 

“How came you to know it? I did not observe 
you upon the avenue.” 

She tells him of a conspiracy overheard by her. 
He had sentenced an Italian brute, who had nearly 
killed his wife, to hard labor in the interior. The 
brother had sworn vengeance. She had been return¬ 
ing from the sick bed of a woman and heard it all, 
and came in time to prevent it. 

She has kept her face averted while talking. He 
has not seen it. Over and over he thanks her. She 
says not one word until he finishes. 

“Are you not fearful that they will retaliate upon 
you for your warning? They are vindictive people, 
these Italians.” 

“God will protect me,” she answers, drawing her 
form erect, and raising her eyes to the heavens. 
The moonlight shines full upon her face—a beauti¬ 
ful face, though marked with age and suffering. A 
face outlined by the white bandage and black veil. 
A face that causes him to stagger and seize a tying 
post upon the curb for support. 


CA c BLEG%AM 371 

He gasps for breath. He is evidently distressed. 
She hurries to him. 

You are ill?” she asks in her low, sweet voice, 
a tender woman’s voice. 

"You here?” he cries. "You recognize me?” 

She looks at him in gentle amazement. 

"I know you as Andrew Grey, judge of the mu¬ 
nicipal court.” 

He seizes her by the arm and looks down into 
her eyes. She draws back; she is growing alarmed 
at his action. 

"You do not know me as anything else?” 

"No. I never spoke to you before in my life.” 

He looks as if he did not believe her. 

"Kindly release me,” she cries. "You hurt me." 

"Pardon me," he mutters. "Can I be mistaken?” 
he says, as if to himself. He has released her. 
She is preparing to leave him. 

"Tell me,” he cries. "How long have you been 
here? You are surely not of these people. Your 
accent tells me you are either English or Ameri¬ 
can. ” 

"I am an American, Senor,” she answers calmly. 
"I have resided here for twenty-eight years." 

"Twenty-eight years! I must be mistaken.” He 
never takes his eyes from off her face. She bids 
him farewell. Again he thanks her for the service 
she has rendered him. 

"Thank not me; thank God,” she replies, and 
leaves him. He looks after her. Suddenly he fol¬ 
lows her. He overtakes her. 


372 tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME. 

"Pardon me, sister; will you kindly tell me your 
name?” 

She looks up into his face. "I am known as Sis¬ 
ter Agnes,” she says, and is gone. 

Sister Agnes! He does not follow her this time; 
only stands in the moonlight with a startled, bewil¬ 
dered look in his eyes. Stands as if petrified, until 
the loud toned bell in the tower of a church near 
by, tolls out the hour of midnight. Then he goes 
to his home; to his bed; but not to sleep. 
Memories of other days crowd into his busy brain, 
until the first rays of coming day shoot through his 
half-closed blinds and bring into relief the furniture 
of his apartment. A woman’s face. One as if from 
the dead. The dead past of long ago. Sister 
Agnes! 


CHAPTER XLVII 

RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL 

"Felix!" 

"Hello! Oh, it is you, Father. Kind of you, 
I’m sure.” And the son, returning from a year’s 
travel in the United States, clasps the father’s 
hand. 

"You expected I would meet you?” 

"I didn’t know. We parted a little in anger, you 
know. ” 

"That is all forgotten, my boy. Boys will ever be 
boys, and the escapade that gave rise to my anger 
has passed from my mind.” 



%ETURN OF THE PRODIGAL 


373 


“I thought it would, and so I ventured to send you 
the dispatch announcing my coming. Glad you’ve 
forgiven me. Much more pleasant to be on good 
terms with one’s relatives than to be on the outs.” 

"And besides you are my only son. Felix, I con¬ 
sidered all this.” 

Arthur Amroyd, thinking only of his son, has not 
noticed the elegantly dressed, beautiful girl who is 
his companion. She was leaning upon his arm 
when the old gentleman accosted him, but is now 
standing in the background. 

Suddenly the father espies her. 

“Your companion,” he says in a low tone. “You 
have not married since you left home?” He asks 
the question half reproachfully. 

The fair face of the young man becomes suffused 
with blushes. He hesitates. 

“No,” he answers; “not married exactly; thinking 
of it.” How can he explain the presence of his 
companion? 

“Young lady f met in Chicago,” he says, quickly, 
hastily. “An orphan. I offered my services to es¬ 
cort her to her destination. I’ll introduce you. 
Miss Morton, my father, Arthur Amroyd. You have 
heard me speak of him.” 

The girl acknowledges the introduction with a 
bow, darting a look, half of anger, half of reproach 
upon the scarlet, guilty face of her escort. 

“Glad to meet you, I am sure,” cried Arthur Am¬ 
royd. “You must make my house your home, for the 
present,” 


374 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"Yes, of course," cries the young man, evidently 
ill at ease. 

They proceed to the place where the family car¬ 
riage is in waiting. 

"I expected Andrew Grey to join me in welcom¬ 
ing you home," remarks the father, as they are be¬ 
ing whirled homeward. "For some reason he has 
disappointed me. You remember Judge Grey?” 

"I could scarcely forget him in a year," answers 
the son, arousing himself from the reverie he has 
been indulging in since they entered the carriage. 

"It seems to me much longer," says the father. 

The drive home is a silent one. The young girl 
looks out upon the scene with quiet, expressionless 
eyes. The son is engaged in deep thought. The 
father does not interrupt him. Suddenly he espies a 
familiar figure on the sidewalk. 

"Ah, there he is now; drive in to the sidewalk," 
he cries to the coachman. 

Andrew Grey stops as he recognizes the equipage. 
He removes his hat and approaches the carriage. 

"You are a nice fellow, to disappoint me," prjes 
Arthur Amroyd. 

"I must beg your pardon; I did not retire until 
late. I—overslept myself." 

He has not slept at all. He purposely avoided 
the appointment. 

'‘Here’s Felix and a Miss Morton, a young lady 
from Chicago. Felix acted as her escort as she was 
unaccompanied." 

"Very kind of Felix, I am sure;" and Judge Grey 


%ETURN OF THE TRODIGAL 


375 


looks searchingly at the young man, who shifts un¬ 
easily in his seat, under the piercing gaze. The 
penetrating eyes grow kindlier as they rest upon 
the beautiful face of the girl. He secretly wonders 
what she has ever seen in Felix Amroyd to give up 
home for his sake. 

"He has not told his father yet,” he muses. Sud¬ 
denly he thinks of the cablegram. Has it been de¬ 
livered? 

He speaks of it to the father. 

"By Jove! I forgot all about it,” cries Arthur 
Amroyd, and then as he remembers the words he 
has read, his brow becomes clouded. The lady. 
The message speaks of a lady. Can it have refer¬ 
ence to this one? Is his son deceiving him? 

He hands the dispatch to the young man, watch¬ 
ing his face as he reads it, and he is not the only 
one who is interested in the expression of Felix Am- 
royd’s countenance. Andrew Grey is watching 
him covertly, the girl attentively. 

They see the insipid countenance grow red, then 
pale; then, with a muttered curse, which he endeav¬ 
ors to hide with a light mirthless laugh, he thrusts 
the message into his coat pocket. 

"Have you read this?” he asks of his father. 

" Yes; I thought it might be a matter of import¬ 
ance. Its tone puzzled me; can you explain it?” 

"Yes, in time; when we get home. This is hard¬ 
ly a proper time or place.” He speaks evasively. 

Still the girl remains silent, but her brain is busy 
with many thoughts, They proceed on their way 


376 


«/W UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


home, Andrew Grey bowing and leaving them after 
the reading of the message. He understands it all. 
He has read the soul of Felix Amroyd as he 
watched his face. 

“He does not intend to marry the young thing,” 
he mutters. "But justice shall be done her. I 
will interest myself in this matter." 

The balance of the ride is continued in silence. 
The girl is sitting alone upon the back seat of the 
carriage. She has her eyes fixed upon the pocket 
into which the cablegram has been thrust. Proba¬ 
bly she is curious to know its contents. 

They reach the handsome residence of the Am- 
royds. The carriage stops before the door. Arthur 
Amroyd alights first, then the son assists Miss Mor¬ 
ton. As she descends the steps her hand stealthily 
removes something from the side pocket of the loose 
coat and crushes it into her dress pocket. 

Miss Morton has the cablegram! 

She has been interested as to its contents since 
she has seen the effect it produced upon Felix Am¬ 
royd. Now she will know what news it brings. 

A pleasant room is assigned to her use. “For a 
few days,” as Arthur Amroyd says. He looks upon 
her as a visitor. He does not understand matters 
yet. Rather obtuse is this worthy gentleman. 

She does not come down to dinner. 

“Fatigued from the journey,” she sends word: so 
father and son eat alone, served by the stolid but¬ 
ler. They linger a long time over their wine. The 
father is waiting for his son to explain the dispatch 


%ETURN OF THE TRODIGAL 


377 


from the United States. The son is not anxious 
to give an explanation. So they part, after smok¬ 
ing several cigars, the son pleading need of rest, 
the father excusing him. Felix Amroyd goes to his 
room, a frown gathering upon his brow, as he throws 
himself into an arm chair. 

“Relatives coming to Buenos Ayres,” he mutters. 
“Must be married." And this thought causes the 
frown to grow heavier. Not a pleasant man to look 
upon, this Felix Amroyd, when out of humor. He 
rises and goes to the wardrobe where he has hung 
the coat, in the pocket of which he has put the dis¬ 
patch from William Blackstone, Detective. He has 
heard of this man, and somehow fears him, although 
thousands of miles intervene between them. 

He searches every pocket. 

The cablegram is not in any of them! 

“I surely put it in one of these pockets,” he mut¬ 
ters. 

Then he thinks it might have dropped upon the 
floor of the carriage, and he hurries to the stables. 
He inquires of the coachman, the grooms. No; 
they have not seen it. He returns to his apartment, 
vexed and disturbed. He cannot understand what 
has become of the dispatch. 

Suddenly a thought comes to him. A thought 
that evidently causes him alarm, for his brow gath¬ 
ers in a heavier frown, and his eyes glance furtively 
around. 

“That must be it,” he cries. “I must have dropped 
it, and she has found it. I must see if this is true,” 


378 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


The house is silent. His father has gone out. 
He heard the door jar behind him. The servants 
are all below. He will go to the room of Miss 
Morton, and see if she has found the lost message, 
and demand its restoration, if so. 

“Although she knows its contents already,” he 
mutters as he crosses the hall. 

He enters the room without knocking. He sees 
her sitting with her back to the door. 

She rises as she hears him enter, and turning, 
faces him. 

“You might have shown me the respect of knock¬ 
ing,” she says, in a low bitter tone. 

“We are sufficiently well acquainted to dispense 
with ceremony,” he answers with a faint tinge of 
sarcasm in his voice. 

She reddens with either shame or anger, but 
makes no reply, merely pointing to a chair. 

“I have not come to linger,” he says. I have no 
time for love making to-night. I came to ask you 
a question.” 

“And / am glad you have come," she cries with 
flashing eyes. “I, too, have a question to ask. 

“Which I probably will not find it difficult to an¬ 
swer,” he sneers. “But first, hear mine. You saw 
me receive a cablegram to-day. I have lost it. 
Have you seen it?” 

She looks him in the face. 

"Yes,” she answers quietly. 

“Oh, you have? Perhaps you have read it.” 

“Yes.” 


RETURN OF THE FRODIGAL 


379 


“You dared to read my private dispatch?” 

“I certainly did. I find it concerns me, even 
more than yourself. ” 

“Never mind whom it concerns. You had no busi¬ 
ness to read it.” He speaks sullenly. 

"I thought differently. Is this all you wish to say?” 

“Nothing more, save to demand the immediate 
delivery of the dispatch.” 

“I shall consider the matter,” she answers qui¬ 
etly. “Now hear my question: The cablegram 
states that my sister and relatives are on their way 
here. In a fortnight, at the latest, they will arrive. 
Do you propose to carry out the suggestion of Mr. 
Blackstone?” 

“Marry you?” 

“Yes; marry me. Remember; you enticed me 
from Chicago with a promise of marriage. You 
found me a young, foolish girl, who, wearying of a 
life of toil, had determined to cast herself away. 
Already had that determination grown weak. I 
should have returned to my sister the following day, 
repentant, unsullied, save by association; but I met 
you. You exerted every effort to win my love. 
You succeeded, and I became lost forever. You 
promised to make me your wife. I consented to ac¬ 
company you here, to your home. Now I ask you: 
Do you propose to act the part of a man, or will you 
act the miserable scoundrel, that I now know you to 
be?” She has spoken calmly, quietly; her voice has 
been low and soft, but every word goes home to his 
soul; they only excite him to anger. 


38 ° 


C AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


He looks scowlingly upon her, and says scorn¬ 
fully: 

“And because you were so weak, so foolish as to 
believe me, is that any reason why I should sacrifice 
my future, my position in society, by a marriage 
with you? No; I shall not marry you. You are 
supposed to be a Miss Morton, of Chicago, to whom 
I have simply acted the part of escort, and to whom 
my father has extended the courtesies of his house 
for a few days only. There are plenty of places in 
the city where women of your stamp will be made 
welcome. Go to one of them. You are familiar 
with that mode of living.” 

She turns pale as she hears the bitter, cruel, in¬ 
sulting words; words sufficiently loud to be heard 
by any one passing in the hall. Then she says: 

“And this is your answer?” 

“Yes. Surely you did not expect any other?” 

“Very good. Be it so. When my sister and un¬ 
cle arrive, they will find me sheltered beneath the 
roof of one of these places that you say will make 
me welcome. When they ask me how 1 came there, 
I will tell them you sent me there. I will tell my 
story to the populace. Every living creature in 
Buenos Ayres shall know Felix Amroyd as he is. 
I shall keep the cablegram, and show it to the 
world. You have had a chance to prove yourself a 
gentleman. You have refused to accept it. Now, 
I shall prove that you are a poor, mean, despicable 
scoundrel, worse than the sneak thief who steals 
your silverware; for you have stolen that which is of 


%ETURN OF THE, F%0DIG*AL 381 


more value —a young girl's honor. Oh, they shall 
know it. If you condemn me to shame I shall 
drag you down with me, and like Samson of old, 
carry death to my destroyer, even if it accomplishes 
my own.” 

He springs toward her. 

"Give me that cablegram,” he hisses. 

‘‘No; a thousand times NO!” 

‘‘You propose to do as you say?” 

‘‘I have said it. I did not talk idly.” 

‘‘Then by G—d, you shall never leave this room 
alive. ” 

He means to frighten her. He is too much of a 
coward to do aught but threaten. 

He advances toward the door. She has picked 
up a pair of scissors from the table. Her eyes flash 
ominously. 

"Stand from that door!” she cries, her voice 
loud and piercing; "or I shall kill you,” and she 
means it. 

He puts his hand to the inside pocket of his 
dress coat and the next moment a revolver flashes 
in his hand. 

"Put down those scissors, or I’ll shoot them from 
your hand," he cries hoarsely. 

She heeds him not; she springs upon him. She 
seizes the hand in which he holds the glistening 
revolver. She sees him trying to press the trigger; 
she throws his hand back, and a loud report sounds 
out upon the night. 

The pistol has been discharged, and the ball has 


3&2 


*AN unconscious crime 


ploughed its way through the body of Felix Amroyd. 

He falls upon the carpet, his life blood dyeing 
the rich fabric a bright crimson. 

The door flies open; the frightened servants have 
heard the shot. The wounded man turns upon his 
side and gasps: ^ 

" Lillian! My God! you have killed me!" and goe§ to 
meet his maker. 

The girl never swoons; she looks down upon the 
corpse with stony, staring eyes, until she feels the 
hand of the butler laid upon her arm and hears him 
say: 

“We must detain you, Miss, until the officers ar¬ 
rive; this is murder." 

Then she gives vent to one piercing scream, and 
faints in the servant’s arms. 


CHAPTER XLVIII 

A PRISON CELL 

Judge Grey is eating his frugal morning meal. 
By the slow methodical manner in which he is 
disposing of his food, one can see that he is eating 
mechanically, merely from force of habit, not be¬ 
cause he wants the food, but because it is before 
him. 

He is thinking; the high, noble forehead is cor¬ 
rugated by many deeply set lines, his eyes are 
thoughtful and his expression indicates deep study. 

He is thinking of the fair girl he saw in the car- 



<A T^ISON CELL 


383 


riage of Arthur Amroyd, the day before. She has 
greatly interested him. He would give much to 
know her history. His thoughts are rudely inter¬ 
rupted by the door suddenly flying open and ad¬ 
mitting A rthur Amroyd; not the easy-going, self- 
satisfied man of yesterday, but Arthur Amroyd, 
with disarranged clothing, *and neglected hair. 
Wild, pale, horrified. 

His appearance startles the judge. 

“For heaven’s sake, man, what ails you?” He 
arises from his chair. 

“Murder!” cries the man. "Murder most foul! 
My son; my boy!” and falling into a chair, he 
bursts into tears. 

Andrew Grey looks at him as if he thought his 
visitor had become suddenly bereft of his reason. 

“Murder?” he repeats. “Who has been mur¬ 
dered?” 

“My boy; my only son;” and while the astounded 
judge listens with incredulous surprise, he tells 
the story. He cannot believe it; cannot credit the 
truth of the assertion. 

“That fair, beautiful girl, yet in her teens, a mur¬ 
deress!” he believes that there must be some terri¬ 
ble mistake. 

He pities the father, as he sits before him, utterly 
cast down by the weight of his sorrow. His kindly 
heart feels for the miserable man. But the girl; 
what has become of her? He asks the question. 

“Don’t speak of her; don’t mention her name. 
The officers took her in charge an hour after the 


3§4 -NN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

deed was done;" and the stricken lather relapses 
into a state of bitter grief. 

In prison; the girl in prison? Yes; and if the 
investigation proves her guilty, he must try her. He 
muse pronounce sentence upon her. He shudders 
as he thinks of it. Shudders as he realizes the pen 
alty of murder. 

He arouses the father, and they hasten toward 
the palatial mansion, now thrown into mourning 
and sorrow. News vendors pass them upon the 
street. Already the papers are full of the account 
of the tragedy. It has been printed in all the 
tongues spoken in the city. Thousands of people 
are reading it; thousands condemn the young girl. 
The crime is a horrible one; but, somehow, Andrew 
Grey pities the girl, not the victim. He does not 
know the circumstances as yet, but he feels in his 
soul that she is not to blame. He will wait and 
see. 

The girl has been hurried to prison. The officers 
of the law summoned by some one of the servants 
roughly conduct her to the bleak, cold-looking, mer¬ 
ciless jail. She does not half understand it yet. 
She makes no effort to break from them. She is 
docile enough; yet the officers seem to think it 
necessary to handcuff her; to place the cruel brace¬ 
lets upon the delicate wrists. She might grow des¬ 
perate; this fair North American. They had heard 
much of the desperate characters from the United 
States. She does not realize her position until 
the iron doors close with a sullen clang upon her; 



“STAND FROM THAT DOOR, OR I WILL KILL YOU!” 

—Page 381. 

























































i 








A PRISON CELL 


38S 


and then, with a shriek, she realizes that she, the 
tenderly reared niece of John Barton, is an inmate 
of a prison, a murderess , so they say, although she 
knows that Felix Amroyd brought about his own 
death. 

She beats upon the iron doors until the delicate 
white skin shows the traces of blood coming from 
the bruised and torn flesh. She cries aloud in her 
anguish. She shrieks in her despair. No answer 
comes to her cries, naught save the hollow echo 
of the granite walls. 

It is night, oh, so dark! She looks about her 
with terrified eyes. Nothing but black gloom ; gloom 
that envelopes her in its sombre depths, that presses 
upon her heart so that she can scarcely breathe. 

No! What is that2 

Something seems to move in the darkness; some¬ 
thing coming from out the pitchy blackness of the 
corner of the cell. 

She shrieks aloud in her terror. She expects 
every moment to be clasped in the clammy arms 
of some horrible thing. 

No; it does not come. 

She boldly walks to the corner of the cell. Noth¬ 
ing there; only the hideous phantom of a disor¬ 
dered mind. 

She breathes more freely; she has been cold, oh, 
so cold. Now she grows warmer. She seems burn¬ 
ing up with heat. She feels her blood coursing 
through her veins like fire. Her heart beats with 
An Unconscious Crime 2$ 


3 86 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


a strange, dull thud. She can feel its every beat. 
She counts them, one to one thousand. How will 
it all end? How long will it be before that heart, 
so heavy, so dull, will cease to beat? 

MURDER! ! ! 

The penalty is death! 

Death! She shudders. No—no. She is innocent. 
Great God! They cannot condemn her to death. 
She is burning up with this terrible heat. She 
staggers to the window; the small aperture in the 
side of the dungeon. 

Ah, cool air; delicious, refreshing air. 

She looks out upon the night. She can see the 
moon, just emerging from a cloud. Beautiful orb 
of night! 

She stands and watches it until day breaks, and 
the silver crescent fades from view. Day has come. 
She feels some relief that she is no longer in dark¬ 
ness; no gloom, save the pall that shadows her life. 
Her life! Of what benefit is it to her? 

The jailer brings her food—coarse bread, black 
coffee. She turns from it with loathing. 

The man sees the motion. He mutters some¬ 
thing in Spanish. She does not understand it. 
This is what he says: 

"Ha! My cold-blooded American has satisfied 
her thirst with blood. She does not like the 
coffee." 

He goes away, leaving the food upon the small 
table that forms a part of the furniture of the cell. 

The hours creep by; long hours to the unfor- 


A PRISON CELL 


387 


tunate. Ah! some one at the door. The heavy 
chains are dropped. The solid bolts shoot back in 
their sockets. A man enters the cell. She does 
not recognize him in the semi-gloom. Now he 
stands in the swath of sunlight that shoots in 
through the narrow window. She knows him now. 
She remembers the large, kindly eyes, the thought¬ 
ful face, the white hair and mustache of Judge 
Grey. 

He stands before her; the jailer has left them 
alone. 

"I have just come from the house of Arthur Am- 
royd,” he commences gravely. "I have heard the 
testimony given by the servants at the preliminary 
investigation. ” 

She makes no reply. She cannot. He has not 
asked a question; has only made a declaration. She 
sits upon the cot. He occupies the stool near the 
table. The sunlight strikes full upon hfer face. 
He continues: 

"Everything seems much against you, my child. 
It looks black for you.” 

She cries out in one word. 

"Well!” One word, haughtily spoken, defiantly 
cried. He looks surprised. 

"I have come to hear your story,” he says quietly. 

She bursts into a bitter, mirthless laugh. 

"My story! My story! You would not believe it 
if you heard it.” 

"What makes you think so?” He speaks very qui¬ 
etly. 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


388 


“Because you have heard the others. You admit 
that it looks black* for me.” 

“My child; I am a judge; an honorable one, I 
hope. I never judge from hearing one side. The 
servants say you killed Felix Amroyd. ” A shudder 
convulses her frame. He does not seem to notice 
it but continues:—“that he accused you with his 
dying breath. I met you for the first time yester¬ 
day. I formed an opinion of you at that meeting. I 
came to the conclusion that some aggravated cir¬ 
cumstance caused your action even if you really 
committed the deed. I have come to hear your side 
of the story.” 

She does not answer him at once. She cannot 
bring herself to tell this grave, kindly-looking man 
the story of her shame. She seems to see the look 
of horror that will come to his face as he hears her. 
No; she cannot tell him. She will abide by the 
consequences of her sin. She will let her punish¬ 
ment come. . 

“I thank you for your kindness,” she murmurs; 
“but I cannot grant your wish. I cannot tell you 
my story.” 

“Say rather you will not,” he says. “Come; I 
appreciate the feeling of delicacy, of innate modesty 
that comes to your mind; but consider; this is 
a matter of life and death. You are accused of a 
horrible crime, all the more so, because you, a 
young girl, hardly more than a child, are supposed 
to be guilty. Confide in me. Tell me all. 'I shall 
not censure you. I may save you. ” 


A PRISON CELL 


3 8 9 


His voice is almost pleading. Still, she turns 
from him. He sees she is determined not to grant 
his wish. He thinks of something else. 

“Two days ago I read a cablegram, a message for 
Felix Amroyd. It stated that the sister and rela¬ 
tives of a lady were on their way to South America. 
You are that lady. I know it. I knew it the mo¬ 
ment I saw you. For the sake of those who love 
you; those who are even now near you, tell me, so 
that if there is the slightest chance, I may take 
advantage of it.” 

She turns upon him almost fiercely. Her voice 
sounds hoarse and unnatural as she cries: 

“I knew the contents of that message. It was 
through it that Felix Amroyd met his death. Speak 
not to me of those who love me. Do not torture 
me by forcing memory to turn to other thoughts. 
Am I not suffering sufficiently already?” 

She bursts into tears. 

He bends over her. 

“Poor child;” she hears him murmur; “I pity 
you.” 

She brushes away the bitter, scalding tears. She 
arises and goes from him. 

“Why do you pity me? By what right do you 
intrude upon my sorrow? Why do you wish to 
benefit me?” 

“Because I am a man, in the first place; because 
I, too, have suffered; because I am the judge who 
must try you, and if fate decrees pass the sentence 
Upon you.” 


39° c/W UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

She shrinks from him. He the judge. He pass 
sentence upon her—sentence? 

“What sentence?” She speaks the words aloud. 

“ The sentence of death. ” 

He speaks the words gravely, solemnly. 

She scarcely hears him. She feels a"'heavy blow 
at her heart. 

DeathJ She die? She so young; but a few short 
months since, so happy? She pictures the agony of 
her sister; loving, tender Rose; the grief of Uncle 
John; the effect it will produce upon all; and with 
a wild cry, she grasps at the air, as if for support, 
and falls upon the stone floor of the cell. He hur¬ 
ries to her, just as the clank of the heavy chain 
announces that the door of the cell is again being 
opened. He raises her up; a voice speaks behind 
him: 

Leave her to me. I am a woman. I have suffered. 

I can bring sympathy and love.” 

It is she, who had given him the warning upon 
the avenue. She who had saved his life. Sister 
Agnes! 

He mutely bowed, and left them together. 

The unconscious girl, the black-robed sister of 
charity; and the words came to his lips as he left 
the cell: 

"The greatest of these is charity.” 


<A WOMAN’S TENDER SMPATHY 39 * 


CHAPTER XLIX 

A woman’s tender sympathy 

A faint sigh, a convulsive upheaving of the 
bosom, and the girl has returned to the world; re¬ 
turned to the full consciousness of her position, 
hearing the solemn tones of the judge’s voice as it 
pronounces the words, “The sentence of death.’’ 
They are ringing in her ears, repeating each other 
with rhythmatic precision, one long, dismal chorus 
of grave voices. 

She shudders and looks up. She is lying upon the 
stone floor of her cell. Some one is supporting her 
head. Her eyes catch the look of pity, of tender 
solicitude, in the eyes of another; not the judge, 
he is not there; but a woman—a black-robed, 
white-faced woman, looking down into her face 
with a look of sympathy and love, that goes to her 
heart. 

“Do not distress yourself,” she hears the softly 
modulated voice murmur. “Rest your head upon 
my brtast; find sweet peace there.” 

The weary, heart-sick creature closes her eyes 
and drifts off into refreshing slumber. An hour 
passes; still she sleeps; while, like a guardian an¬ 
gel, the beautiful, holy face of the other bends over 
her, ever and anon pressing her lips to the brow of 
the sleeping girl. The accused one whispers, and 
the ruby lips part, and like a zephyr comes the 
word “Mother.” She who has never known a moth- 


39* 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


er’s love, feels her presence in her dreams. The 
watcher feels the tears coming to her eyes. She 
presses her lips once more to the white forehead 
and the girl wakes. 

"You are refreshed by your slumber,” murmurs 
the holy woman. 

Yes; oh, so much." She now arises to her feet. 
She feels better. Her mind is relieved of the 
mighty pressure upon it. Her heart is not so heavy. 
The interior of the dungeon does not seem so 
gloomy. 

The presence of the loving sympathetic face 
seems to have robbed her position of its horrors. 
But how came she here? this black-robed sister of 
love and charity? She asks her. She hears the 
voice answer in the exquisitely modulated tones, 
melody that would lull the fevered brain to sweet 
repose: 

"I heard of your condition. I came to help you." 

To help her? But how can she? The judge had 
said that everything seemed against her. All looked 
black; and yes, he had said that he, the man cf 
kindly ways, loving eyes, must pass the sentence, 
the terrible sentence of death, upon her. 

Alas! You cannot help me," she cries. 

She feels the cool, white hand upon her head. 
The voice answers: 

"Everything is possible with God. I am His em¬ 
issary. Trust in me. Tell me all, and then we 
will pray for forgiveness and succor, from the Powei 
that is greater than all earthly ones." 


*A WOMAN’S TENDER SYMPATHY 393 


Can she unburden her weary heart to this loving 
one? Can she tell the story to her? 

"You would shrink from me if you knew all," she 
cried. 

"I am a woman," the voice answers. "I have a 
woman’s heart. Fear not. I will not censure. 
Woman’s heart is weak, her nature prone to go 
astray. Tell me all." 

She will. She feels she has found a true friend. 

So she tells her story, commencing at the first 
recollections of childhood days; tells of the quiet, 
peaceful home among the trees; of kind Uncle 
John and his faithful wife. On until she comes to 
the flight from home. Then the listener interrupts 
her. 

"And why did your sister determine upon this 
hasty flight?" 

"I know not; there must have been some grave 
reason, or she would not have done so." 

Then came the story of the struggle for existence, 
the weary, desperate battle against poverty. She 
did not spare herself. She told with tearless eyes 
her meeting with Felix Amroyd; everything, even 
to the last interview, the tragical ending. 

The sister listens attentively. She feels that this 
girl has told the truth; but will a jury believe this? 
She has no one to corroborate her statement. No 
witness to the manner in which the man met his 
death, save the Almighty. She does not speak her 
thoughts to the girl. She knows that they would 
only alarm her, 


394 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“And this message from the United States, an¬ 
nounces the coming of your sister and relatives?” 

“Yes. They must have taken passage soon after 
my departure.” 

Then they would soon be here. 

“And your uncle’s name; is it the same as your 
own?” . 

“Yes.” 

“The papers speak of you simply as Miss Mor¬ 
ton. The servants, in their testimony at the 
preleminary investigation, say that the dying 
man called you Lillian. Is your name Lillian 
Morton?” 

“No. I have told you so much. I may as well 
tell you all. My sister thought best to assume fic¬ 
titious names, so we took the one of Morton.’ 

“And your real name?” 

“Is Lilia Barton.” 

Barton! Why does the interested listener start 
at the mention of that name? It is a common one; 
why should it cause her surprise? 

“Your uncle’s name." She speaks quickly, eager¬ 
ly, as if her life hung upon the answer. 

“John Barton." 

The woman gasps for breath and recoils from the 
girl. 

“John Barton?" 

“Yes. Why? Do you know him? Are you ill?” 
She asks this as she sees the evident distress of the 
other. 

“No, not ill. Only startled, Tell me truthfully; 


A WOMAN'S TENDER SYMPATHY 395 


for Oh, much depends upon your answer. Did your 
uncle, John Barton, ever reside in Australia?” 

“I believe so. I have heard him mention Mel¬ 
bourne.” 

She looks in wonderment upon the effect of her 
words. She has forgotten her own sorrow, her de¬ 
spair, in her surprise. 

"It must be the same,” she hears the sister mur¬ 
mur. ‘‘I would ask you more,” she says. “What 
was your father’s name?” 

"I do not know. I never knew my parents.” 

"Never knew your parents? Poor child; but you 
must have heard your uncle speak of them?” 

"Never to my recollection." 

"Are they dead?” 

"They must surely be, or else I should have 
known them.” 

True; unless some black mystery hung over the 
life of the girl. 

"One more question. Did your relative ever 

I 

speak of a brother—a brother who had died long 
before your birth?” The large thoughtful eyes of 
the eager questioner are fixed full upon the face of 
the girl, waiting with bated breath the answer. It 
comes: 

"No. He never spoke of a brother.” 

A look of disappointment crosses the face of the 
sister. 

"But I think he must have had a brother,” con¬ 
tinues the girl. 

"Why? What makes you think so?” 


396 


C AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“In the large Bible which he used for evening 
prayers, I one day found the record of birth and 
death of one bearing the same name.” 

“What was the name? Speak! Can you remem¬ 
ber it?” 

“Yes. The name was Alonzo Barton.” 

She springs from her seat to the relief of the sis¬ 
ter who has fallen upon the bed, her face buried in 
the scanty covering. She brings the stone jug of 
water and offers it to her. 

The pale-faced woman arouses herself. The girl 
is startled by the look in her eyes. She sees the 
lips move. She knows she is praying, and awed 
she stands silent before her. 

The black robed sister has recovered her com¬ 
posure. She holds out her arms to the girl. 

“Come to me,” she murmurs. “Come to me. I 
have a right to love you. A right that I have just 
discovered. To think that after all these years I 
should have discovered one of my kindred. Come to 
my arms.” 

The girl clasps her about the neck; the woman of 
God rains warm kisses upon her upturned face, 
kisses that thrill the young creature to her soul. 
She'does not understand it; she cannot see through 
it all. 

At last the strange woman puts her from her. 
Rises and goes to the door of the cell. 

“You are going to leave me?” cries the girl. 

Yes; but not for long. Remain here for a short 
time only. I shall return soon. You shall not stay 


SHE IS THE CHILD OF MY SON 397 


here. I will have you removed to another, a holier 
place, where I can watch over you. You shall be 
saved. You must not perish.” 

She has signaled for the jailer. There is a means 
of doing so from the inside, and now the door 
opens. 

Once mere pressing the girl to her bosom, the 
holy woman passes out of the cell, leaving behind 
her that which she came to bring—peace, comfort, 
hope. Taking with her that which had been buried 
in the past for years, filial love, happiness. 


CHAPTER L 

SHE IS THE CHILD OF MY SON 

Judge Andrew Grey had gone directly to his office 
upon leaving the prison. The refusal of the girl to 
confide in him made his heart heavy. He had felt 
attracted toward her in a most singular manner, and 
instead of feeling that loathing and horror toward 
her that the history of her crime seemed to have 
created in the minds of all who heard of it, he pit¬ 
ied her, believing her innocent of the deed, or 
brought to it by the most aggravating circumstances. 
As he had told her, everything looked black for 
her. The servants of Arthur Amroyd each con¬ 
demned her. They were as one in their testimony 
as to the last words of the dying man, and that 
testimony was sufficient to condemn her to death, 
or to life-long imprisonment. 



39 8 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“If she is found guilty, I shall be obliged to pass 
sentence upon her,” he muttered as he sat before 
his writing table, revolving the subject in his mind. 
“They call me a righteous judge. I have never 
been known to relent. I cannot hesitate if the jury 
pronounce her guilty; but I would rather my tongue 
be paralyzed than speak the words that condemn 
that child.” 

A noise at the door. 

His assistant. 

“Well, Pedro?” 

“It is court time, your honor. I come for you." 

With an involuntary sigh the man arises from 
his chair and follows the young man. 

The distance to the court room is not great, and 
he is soon sitting upon the bench to pass judgment 
upon those unfortunates brought before him. 

Several minor cases are disposed of, until, finally, 
the last one on the docket is brought to his notice. 

“Miguel Banca,” is called. 

A dark-skinned, sullen-looking, burly Portuguese. 
He has been caught in the act of breaking into a 
jewelry establishment. He is a dangerous customer, 
has tried to evade arrest, is known as a professional 
burglar, and would not hesitate at murder. 

So says the prosecuting attorney. Andrew Grey 
hears the history of the fellow; a dangerous man, 
truly. The public will be benefited by his removal 
from active life. 

But the judge does not pass sentence that day. 
Why? Because the wife of the brute, a delicate- 


SHE IS THE CHILD OF MY SON 399 

looking little woman, stands near him, holding a 
little baby in her arms, and the guilty father presses 
it in his arms once during the trial, and kisses it. 

“He loves his child,” flashes through the mind 
of the judge. "I will put over his sentence until 
the next court.” 

The next court—one week from this day. At that 
court will be tried the girl murderess, as the papers 
put it. 

He announces his decision, and adheres to it, 
despite the remonstrances of the prosecuting attor¬ 
ney. The man flashes a look of gratitude from out 
his dark eyes, and is then taken back to the jail. 

The judge goes to his office. He does not go 
home for his lunch. He eats it at his office or at 
some one of the numerous restaurants in the vicin¬ 
ity. He is engaged in this employment when Pedro 
announces a visitor. 

“Admit him,” he answers, thinking it some one 
on official business. Few people call there upon 
any other. 

But the visitor is not a man. It is a woman, and 
a woman who has occupied his thoughts for the 
past few days. 

Sister Agnes! 

She enters hesitatingly. With an involuntary 
gesture he throws a napkin over his repast and 
offers her a chair. 

She accepts it and remains silent. He stands 
waiting for her to begin. She does so. 

“You are a man of mercy,” she says. 


460 


UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

“I hope so.” 

Your reputation is one of unerring integrity; you 
are known for your just decisions, and unrelenting 
judgments.” 

"I do my duty.” 

"And yet I know you can be merciful. Your eyes 
are kindly. Your face sympathetic. ” 

"I am never deaf to an appeal.” 

I come to you in behalf of one I know to be in¬ 
nocent of crime. One that must soon be brought 
before you. ” 

“I know whom you mean.” 

"She must be saved.” 

Believe me, sister, when I say that I am willing 

to do anything in my power to further her salva¬ 
tion. ” 

"I knew it; I felt it! I have just come from her. 

I have heard her story. She is innocent." 

"If she can only prove it." He speaks gravely. 

I will relate the occurrence. You will then un- 
derstand it.” 

She tells him of the cause of Felix Amroyd’s 
eath, tells him of his base action, and Andrew 
Grey believes the story. 

"I imagined something of the kind," he says "I 
saw the cablegram upon its arrival, or rather de¬ 
livery to the father. I knew there was something 

wrong. He deserved his fate." This last he mut- 
ters to himself. 

"I also wish to ask if it is possible to remove her 

from the dreary prison where she is now confined. 


SHE IS THE CHILD OF MY SON 4 °1 


I will take her beneath the roof of my home, the 
convent of St. —. She will be better there, and 
just as safe.” 

“I may be able to arrange the matter. You will 
be responsible for her?” 

"You ask that question from the official side of 
your character. As a man you know she could be 
trusted abroad in the streets of Buenos Ayres.” 

He flushes. 

“You are right," he says, and writes an order for 
the transfer of the girl prisoner. 

She takes it thankfully, and is about to leave. 
He detains her. 

“Sister Agnes, will you answer me one question?” 

“If I can." 

“You noticed my agitation the night you saved me 
from the assassin’s knife?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you ever thought what caused it?” 

“I have given it no serious thought.” 

“Shall I tell you?” 

“If you choose.” 

“And if I do will you explain to me one thing?” 

“Again I say, if I can.” 

“Then listen: In the years gone by I loved—a 
wife, children. A horrible circumstance caused our 
separation. I have never see that wife, or those 
children since. I met you face to face, for the first 
time that night. I gazed upon your countenance in 
surprise, bewilderment, joy. Yours is the face of my 

An Unconscious Crime 26 


402 « AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 

wife . You tell me you have been here twenty-eight 
years. Is this true?” 

She colors under his gaze. 

"I never tell an untruth, Judge.” 

He feels rebuked. 

"Your question?" she asks. 

He does not seem to hear her for he says: 

"Your name, even, is that of her whom I lost— 
Agnes.” 

"A coincidence, perhaps.” 

"More. I believe there is some mystery underly¬ 
ing all this. I know now you are not she I loved. 
It cannot be, but I feel as if there was some con¬ 
necting link between us. Tell me this. Have you 
ever been wed?" 

She turns pale. 

"Why cause the dead past to give up its dead?” 
she wails. 

"Answer me. Tell me this.” 

"Yes.” The clear dark eyes fill with pain. 

"And your husband?” 

"Is dead.” 

"Have you ever been a mother?" 

"Press me not to answer you. Can you not see you 
torture me?” 

"Tell me.” The large eyes are pleading. 

"Yes, I have been a mother." 

"And your children?” 

"I never had but one. I have never seen him 
since when a baby he lay in my arms.” 

"A son?” 


SHE IS fHE CHILD OF MY SON 


A look of disappointment comes to his face. He 
had formed a new-found hope in his heart. 

“Does he live?’’ he cried. 

“I know not; would that I did.” 

“Can you not tell me of your life; of that life of 
long ago; your name when in the world?” 

She shakes her head sorrowfully.. 

"It is not permitted,” she murmurs. “My life is 
buried in the grave of the past. This black veil is 
the emblem of mourning. I have been created a 
new creature, purified, better than I was before. 
This much,will I tell you. You have seen my great 
interest in this girl who now lies in the dark dun¬ 
geon of your jail; you have heard me declare my 
belief in her innocence; you have heard me say she 
must be saved. Shall I tell you why I have thus 
spoken; why I wish her near me, to be comforted, 
consoled, made better for another life?" 

“Yes—tell me—tell me." 

“Because I heard the story of her life from cihld- 
hood up. I found familiar names pass her lips. I 
know her. She is the child oj my son. The daughter 
of him who has never known a mother’s love." 

He falls back into the easy chair behind him. 
He passes his hand over his eyes. When he recov¬ 
ers she is gone. He hurries to the door; she is 
already out of sight. 

He returns to the office. 

“What mystery is here?" he murmurs. "I must 
learn this woman’s history; I know it affects my life.” 


404 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


CHAPTER LI 

THE ARRIYAL OF THE MONTEVIDEO 

There is great excitement in Buenos Ayres this 
day. The English steamer Montevideo, which has 
been three days overdue, has been signaled, and in 
an hour the passengers will land. The great trial of 
the girl murderess, Miss Morton, of Chicago, is to 
take place, and public excitement runs wild, as they 
talk it over. Out of the thousands in the South 
American metropolis, there are but few who believe 
her innocent. They all declare her guilty, and are 
eager to hear of the sentence, which will condemn 
her to pay the penalty of her crime. 

The court house has been thronged with curious, 
crowding people since early morning. It cannot 
hold them all. Thousands throng the sidewalks, 
even to the street. The police service is inadequate 
to the emergency. 

The first boats have landed upon the shore, bring 
ing a number of passengers from the steamer. In a 
short time all are landed, the last being a young 
girl and her husband; at least, so one would think 
to watch the tender solicitude displayed by the 
young man toward his companion. An old gentle¬ 
man and a negro servant are also of the party. 

They hurry from the boat to a crowd of waiting 
cabmen. 

“Can you direct me to the residence of Felix Am- 
royd?" asks the old gentleman. 


ARRIVAL OF THE MONTEVIDEO 4°S 


The hackman is an Englishman. He turns a d 
winks at one of his companions. 

“Hit would be ha ’ard matter to do that, sir,” h« 
answers. 

“Why; is he not known here?” 

“’E were, sir; but you see ’e’s dead, sir.” 

"Dead?" 

“Murdered by his mistress, sir. The trial takes 
place to-day.” 

The quartette look from one to the other. What 
can this mean? 

“Come, my man; make your meaning plain. I 
understood that Mr. Amroyd was married; in fact, 
came here with his wife, upon the ‘Rio De Jan¬ 
eiro.’” 

“Hi tried to make my meanin’ plain, sir. Hi 
told you the facts. The lady what came with ’im 
shot ’im dead the same night they got ’ere, and 
she’s now hon trial." 

“My God!” A groan bursts from the lips of 
all. 

“Drive us to the court house,” cried the younger 
man, and in a minute they are whirled .toward the 
temple of justice. They find it impossible to obtain 
an entrance. Thousands of people are willing to 
pay well for the privilege. 

An officer is found—they can be found sometimes. 
To him the young man explains that they are rela¬ 
tives of the girl. They must gain admittance'. 

“We are willing to pay you for your trouble.” 

The officer has read the account of the cablegram. 


406 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


He knows there are relatives coming; so, bidding 
them wait, he hurries away. 

He is gone not over ten minutes. He returns to 
them, and informs them that they can gain en¬ 
trance by the private staircase, used only by the 
judge and lawyers. They will be obliged to stand 
near the judge’s dais. They do not object. They 
are only too anxious to gain admittance. They fol¬ 
low their conductor up the narrow staircase. 

Inside the court room all is breathless attention. 
The sweltering masses crowded into the narrow con¬ 
fines of the room, do not utter a word of complaint. 
They are only too glad to be able to get there. The 
testimony of the servants has been heard. It has 
not taken long. The prosecuting attorney has ad¬ 
dressed the jury. The young girl has related the 
facts of the death just as they occurred, omitting the 
story of the man’s baseness. 

"You mean to say it was an accident?" cries the 
prosecution. 

"Yes, sir. He had the revolver in his hand and it 
discharged in the struggle." 

He subjects her to a rigorous cross examination. 
He wishes to know what the words of the cablegram 
meant; why she had come to Buenos Ayres at all. 

The poor girl tries to evade his cruel questions 
which will lay bare her whole history of shame if she 
answers them. She looks appealingly at the judge. 
The sister of charity who is sitting beside her also 
appeals to him mutely, 

H& speaks; 


ARRIVAL OF THE MONTEVIDEO 407 


"The lady is not compelled to reveal her heart to 
you, sir,” he says. 

‘‘Well, then, let her prove her assertion,” cries 
the attorney. 

‘‘Alas! I cannot," she moans. 

Miguel Banca, the burglar, is awaiting his sen¬ 
tence. He has been uneasy during the entire pro¬ 
ceedings. Now starting forward as if to speak, as if 
to say something; then relapsing into his sullen 
apathy. 

The judge pale, white as his hair, looks pityingly 
upon the face of the girl. She is innocent he feels; 
but Oh. God! she cannot prove it. Must this fair 
sweet creature perish? 

Silence as profound as the grave reigns. Not one 
of that immense crowd but feels some slight sympa¬ 
thy toward the unfortunate one. The judge rises 
from his chair. He is about to address the jury; he 
is about to instruct them, and bid them render a 
verdict in accordance with the testimony rendered, 
recommending the prisoner to their mercy. 

There is a slight disturbance to the left of the 
judge’s dais. Some one is having difficulty in forc¬ 
ing an entrance through the private door. 

The judge does not notice it. He does not hear 
it. His heart and soul are filled with pity for 
the young girl who is so near the verge of de^. 
struction. 

The white lips moan, but before he can speak a 
dark figure forces its way through the crowd of law¬ 
yers and spectators. The figure of a negro, A ne- 


408 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


gro who forces his way through the throng and faces 
the judge. A wavering voice that cries: 

" Fo' God's sake> Mr. Al. Don' f judge de gal. She 

am yo' own child!" 

The man looks down upon the speaker. The 
white haired judge. The large, tender eyes fill with 
a look of terror and surprise. He sees not the look 
of amazement upon the faces of those present. 
Sees not the startled face of sister Agnes, who has 
half risen from her place by the side of the prisoner. 
Sees only the beseeching face of the negro, a face 
that he recognizes. Only gasps out the one word: 

“Jupiter!” 

His own child. How can it be possible! His own 
child before him, on trial for her life, and he the 
judge! 

He stares in blank bewilderment upon the face of 
the faithful servant, the servant who knows all; who 
has been a companion in the days of old. Then all 
grows black before his eyes. He wavers and sinks 
into the chair behind him. He has fainted. 

The officers remove the intruder. He struggles, 
but in vain. 

The associate judge, a Spaniard, rises to address 
the jury, while two of the lawyers, intimate friends 
of Judge Grey, endeavor to return him to conscious¬ 
ness. 

The associate demands silence, as the court room 
is a scene of confusion. Order is restored with some 
difficulty; but all is quiet in a short time. 
“Gentlemen of the jury:” the Spaniard speaks. 


ARRIVAL OF THE MONTEVIDEO 409 

You have heard the testimony. The prisoner at 
the bar has proclaimed her innocence, but cannot 
bring corroborative evidence of the truth of her 
statement—” 

He is interrupted at this juncture; interrupted 
by the sudden movement of the dark-skinned burg¬ 
lar, Miguel Banca, who jumps to his feet and cries 
aloud in his native tongue: 
r “But I can , Sen or Judge!" 

There is great commotion all over the court room. 
The judge looks in stern displeasure upon the 
criminal. 

“Silence, sir," he commands. 

“But I can prove the innocence of Senorita,” mut¬ 
ters the man. 

“What do you know?” asks the prosecuting attor¬ 
ney contemptuously. 

“I know the Senorita spoke the truth. Hear me. 
I am willing to be put on oath.” 

Judge Andrew Grey has recovered. He hears the 
fellow’s words. He rises with difficulty and re¬ 
sumes his place. 

“Let him be heard,” he says feebly, but sternly. 
The oath is administered; the Portuguese speaks: 

“On the night of the supposed murder I had broken 
into the house of Senor Amroyd. I was in search 
of the plate which the Senor possesses, the finest 
in Buenos Ayres. I was hiding in a room, intend¬ 
ing to wait until the house was quiet and then do 
my work; when in the room next to me, I heard 
the sound of angry voices. They were speaking in 


4 io 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


English, but I understand the language. I looked 
through the keyhole of the door and saw the Sen- 
orita and him who was killed. I heard everything 
that was said. I saw the struggle, heard the pistol 
shot, and know that Senor Amroyd was killed by 
accident.” 

Silence profound, broken at last by a fervent 
voice crying aloud: 

“Thank God!” A voice from the left of the 
judge’s dais. 

“Why have you not spoken before?” 

It is the calm voice of Judge Grey which asks 
the question. 

“I thought if it were known that I had broken 
into the house that I might be suspicioned. ” 

The jury render their verdict without leaving 
their seats. 

“Not guilty." 

A murmur of disappointment by some is drowned 
in a hearty cheer by the majority. The next mo¬ 
ment the girl is clasped to the breast of a hand¬ 
somely dressed lady, and the bystanders hear the 
word: 

“Sister!” 

They then see a noble looking venerable old 
gentleman take her in his arms, holding her tight¬ 
ly, as if fearful of losing her again, and know that 
the “Montevideo” is in port and that these are the 
relatives. 

In the confusion the white haired judge leaves 
the room. He must be alone; alone to think. He 


t/fN UNEXPECTED ^ARRIVAL 


411 

does not observe the radiant black face seeking to 
attract his attention; passes unheeded through the 
private door, not noticing the form of Jupiter, strug¬ 
gling to reach him. 

Court adjourns. 

Miguel Banca does not receive his sentence that 
day. 


CHAPTER LII 

AN UNEXPECTED ARRIYAL 

With bowed head and trembling steps Andrew 
Grey proceeds to the hall that leads to the street. 

The voice of Jupiter still rings in his ears; 

“She am yo’ own child;” and yet he leaves her. 
Leaves her without an embrace; without one fervent 
kiss. He is in doubt; his brain is not clear as yet. 
He will go to his office and think. 

And Sister Agnes? 

She is watching him; she sees him leave the 
place, and while her charge is sobbing upon the 
breast of Uncle John, she glides down the stair and 
follows him. She sees him enter the dingy little 
office ; notices that he does not lock the door, but 
leaves it half open. She sees the massive head fall 
forward on the folded arms, and hears the sound of 
convulsive sobbing. 

He is seated before his desk. She is soon beside 
him; her cool hand upon his burning forehead. 
“Judge Grey.” The voice sounds soft and low. 

The noble head rises quickly. 



412 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


i 


“You; Sister Agnes?” 

“Yes, Andrew; I have come to solve a mystery.” 

“Solve a mystery?” He looks at her with distend¬ 
ed eyes. 

I heard the words of the negro, witnessed your 
agitation. You recognized him. Were his words 
true?” 

“God help me, I know not." 

“You told me you had left your wife and chil¬ 
dren. Were those children girls?” 

“Yes—angels in human form.” 

“Why did you leave them?” 

He rises to his feet and paces the narrow confines 
of his office. 

“Why? Oh, God!” 

The memory of the past comes to his aching heart. 
He turns and looks into the kindly, loving eyes; in¬ 
to that face, the face that has haunted him for weeks; 
the face so like her who has been dead to him for so 
long. 

“You ask me why I left them? Listen; I will tell 
you. I will reveal to you that which has been buried 
in the sepultchre of my heart for years. I tell you 
for you have her face. I told you this once before. It 
all came back to me like an overwhelming torrent 
the night I first saw you.” Then, with dry, burn¬ 
ing eyes, he tells the story, the story of Albert 
Greyson and Frances Norton, controlling with a 
mighty effort the deep, sonorous voice, tightly 
clutching the lapel of his coat, as if to support 
himself while doing so. 


AN unexpected arrival 


413 


She listens with mute surprise, sorrow depicted 
on the white face, tender love in the dark eyes. He 
finishes: 

“I am Albert Greyson. The story is my own. I 
have told you all. For years I wandered over the 
earth, through Europe, Africa, Asia. Suddenly, one 
day, while standing beneath the shade of the pyra¬ 
mids of Egypt, came the memory of one I had known 
years before. A man who had clasped my hand in 
friendship, who had said : 'If ever you need a friend, 
remember me.’ The words of General Ferdinand Lo¬ 
pez. I determined to find him. I started for Liv¬ 
erpool at once, and from there came here. My friend 
made me welcome. I have remained here since. 
He is now dead; but his friendship will live forever 
in my memory. Now you know all. Could I have 
done otherwise? Does my action seem cruel and 
heartless to you now? Could I remain with that 
dear wife, that mother I had unconsciously wronged? 
Could I look upon the innocent faces of my children 
again?” He speaks almost fiercely. 

The black robed woman has risen to her feet, a 
holy light in her eyes. He has buried his face in 
his hands, and she can see the manly breast heaving 
with deep emotion. 

She lays her hand upon his head. 

"Look up, sad heart. Your story is a heart-rend¬ 
ing one; but thank God, it is not true ." 

He looks at her with wide-staring eyes. 

"Not true! What do you mean?” 

"You are not guilty of crime. Can you not 


4 i 4 


c AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


guess? Do you not recall my words, the last time I 
saw you in this very room? I told you I had heard 
the story of that child then lying in a dungeon; 
that I recognized part of it; that she was the child 
of my son. If you are her father you are my son 

He presses his hand to his heart. 

Its violent throbbing seems to suffocate him. This 
his mother? How can it be possible? 

“No—no! It cannot be!” he groans. 

“You have admitted you are Albert Greyson. The 
woman you married was not Agnes Greyson. I know 
it; for I a?n Agnes Greyson , formerly Agnes Bar¬ 
ton. My husband was Hubert Greyson. You have 
told me the story of your father’s desertion of his 
young wife; of the sad effect it produced upon the 
mind of her who was as pure and innocent as the 
babe she nursed. I know it all, Albert. I am your 
mother. ” 

He begins to believe her. He sees the eager 
pleading in the soft eyes of the woman before him; 
sees the outstretched arms of the mother, who is 
waiting to be taken to his heart. He does not ob¬ 
serve the form of Jupiter standing in the doorway. 
Jupiter and a stranger. He is about to clasp her to 
his breast, when that feeling of doubt comes to him 
again. “If you are my mother, who was she? Fran¬ 
ces Norton, my wife?” 

“/ can tell you." The stranger has spoken and 
comes toward him. A stranger well along in years. 
A face wrinkled and old, but a face he has seen be¬ 
fore. ? 


*AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL 41 5 

"Yes, Albert Greyson. I can explain. Take this 
loving mother to your heart. Press upon her aged 
lips a son’s kiss, for she is your mother. I can 
prove it." 

"And you"— 

"Look well upon me. Do you not know me?" 

With eager eyes they both scan the time-worn 
face before them; then as if by inspiration the 
recognition comes to both. 

" Dr . Roberts!" 

"Yes, Dr. Roberts." 

Jupiter speaks; the others are too much over¬ 
come to do so. 

H I followed yo,’ Mister Al. I seed de lady come 
into de house, an’ I were waitin’ outside ’til she 
come out, so I could speak to yo.’ De doctah ’cog¬ 
nized me standin’ on de sidewalk an’ I done tole 
him yo’ was here. We stood in de door an’ heard 
all yo’ said." 

The mother is clasped in the arms of the son a 
son whose hair is whiter than her own; a son who 
has not felt a mother’s kiss in many weary years. 

The doctor stands by with averted face. He can 
explain all. He will do so when the proper time 
comes. He will not break in upon this scene before 
him. Jupiter comes to the side of the loved master. 

"Yo’ hab found yo’ mammy, Mister Al. Now come 
to yo’ chillun." 

He hears the voice of the friend and servant, 
friend though black. He turns and clasps his hand. 

"True friend-faithful one. You have watched 





“LOOK WELL UPON ME. DO YOU NOT KNOW ME?” 

—Page 415. 








































































































































































































THE FREAKS OF *A MADMAN 


4*7 


has observed the action of Jupiter and the sister. 
Although she does not say that she has seen, does 
not mention the thoughts that have surged through 
her mind, yet her girlish heart beats strangely. 

"She am yo’ own child;” Jupiter has said. 

She feels that some great surprise is in store for 
her. 

John Barton beams upon all around him. His 
heart is glad; this kind old man. But one feeling 
of pain strikes the chords of memory occasionally. 
The memory of the hackman’s jeering words upon 
the landing. 

"Shot by his mistress." 

He thinks of this at intervals. The man has not 
said wife. He shudders as he thinks of the insinu¬ 
ation conveyed by the fellow’s words. 

"She will explain all,” he thinks, looking upon 
the sweet young face; and drives it from his 
mind. 

"Together again!” he cries. "Once more united. 
Our family circle would be-complete if my dear wife 
were here; and by the way, Jupiter is also absent.” 
He has not missed him until this time; so taken up 
with the lost one, he has not observed the absence 
of the faithful servant. 

"He is probably taking in the sights of the city,” 
remarks Atkinson, laughingly. 

They accept this theory. 

Lilia and Rose have gone to the apartment of the 
latter, upon arriving at the hotel. With many tears 

An Unconscious Crime 2*j 


JIN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


41B 


Lilia has told her sister all. She has listened with 
feelings of sorrow and sweet sympathy. 

"Uncle John will turn from me when he knows 
all,” Lilia has sobbed upon her sister’s bosom. 

"He need never know it all;" and Rose tells her 
of Blackstone’s plan; explains why the cablegram 
had been sent. 

"But two knew the secret of your shame—Mr. 
Blackstone, and he who is dead. One will not 
speak; the other cannot . ” 

"I cannot deceive kind Uncle John. I have done 
so too much already." 

"Leave it to me, dear sister, I will explain it in 
such a way that he will not suspect the real truth. 
Do not fear. Dry your tears, and we will go down 
to dinner." 

Lilia obeys her sister, and we find them at the 
table. Dinner is over, the table cleared, and with 
the permission of the ladies Uncle John and the 
young husband enjoy a smoke. Lilia and Rose are 
sitting side by side happy to be reunited. Suddenly 
Rose whispers: 

"It is best to have it over with. We can all sleep 
easier in our minds if it is so. Shall I tell your 
story?” 

Lilia trembles. 

"No; not now,” she answers. "I am so happy. I 
dread the effect it will produce.” 

. "It is better, dear," whispers the sister. "Trust 
in me;" and she crosses the room and sits upon a 
low stool at John Barton’s feet. 


THE FREAKS OF *A MADMAN 419 

"Uncle dear, Lilia has told me all. She is so 
fearful of telling you that I have taken it upon my¬ 
self to do so. Will you listen to me now?” 

The old man places his hand upon the raven locks. 
He looks at the shrinking, trembling girl upon the 
sofa at the farther end of the room, and then at the 
face of her who sits at his feet. His heart beats 
rapidly. He desires to hear the story, yet dreads it. 

"Proceed,” he murmurs at last. 

"Shall I leave the room?” cries Charles, rising. 

"No. It is nothing but what you can hear. Only 
the sad tale of a loving heart deceived; a confidence 
misplaced; a man’s base treachery.” 

He resumes his seat at his wife’s words. 

In a clear sympathetic voice Rose tells the story 
of the meeting of Felix Amroyd and Lilia, reserv¬ 
ing the character of the place where the meeting 
took place. Explains that in the innocence of her 
heart the young girl had placed implicit trust in the 
villain, and had consented to accompany him to Bue¬ 
nos Ayies, and there marry him at his father’s house 
as he desired. How he had refused to do so, and 
the sad consequences which followed. John Bar¬ 
ton’s face grows sad. 

"You knew she was not his wife before she left 
Chicago; you knew this cablegram was to be sent?” 
He speaks in a tone of sad reproach. 

"Yes, dear; but we wished to spare you the 
knowledge of her weakness, not guilt; only the 
weakness of a woman’s nature;” she cries plead- 
ingly. / 


420 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


"You should have told me all, then. You should 
not have deceived me, Rose.” 

He feels hurt; this good old man. 

“Forgive me, Uncle John. You were so weak, so 
ill. We really thought it best not to do so. See; 
she is in tears. She is waiting for you to say you 
forgive her all. You will not censure me for acting 
as I did. I did it for the best.” 

She is at his feet. With a quick, impetuous 
movement Lilia is by her side, her blue eyes raised 
to the kindly face above her. He hesitates but a- 
moment, and then bids them rise. The next mo¬ 
ment they are hanging about his neck. 

“It is over," he says. “I forgive you both, my 
children. ” 

Charles Atkinson wipes a tear from his eye. He 
is a tender hearted young fellow, this man, Atkin¬ 
son. 

They are interrupted by the sudden entrance of 
Jupiter. Jupiter with eyes as big as saucers and 
his decidedly large mouth wide open, displaying a 
fine set of teeth. 

“’Scuse me for interruptin’, but its berry deport- 
ant, Mister John. I mus’ see yo’ at onst. ” 

John Barton puts the girls from him with a gen¬ 
tle effort, and rises. 

“Speak out, Jupiter," he says. “There must be 
no secrets here." 

"Jist come out yeah a minnit, sah. Den yo’ kin 
come back." 

With a puzzled air John Barton follows the serv- 


THE FREAKS OF *A MADMAN 


421 


ant. He goes out into the hall. He is gone for 
some time. When he returns his eyes gleam joy¬ 
fully. Jupiter follows him into the room. 

The old man resumes his seat. He clears his 
voice. 

“My children,” he begins. "A moment ago 1 said 
there must be no secrets here. At that time I for¬ 
got that there is a secret which I have kept from 
you, and which can now be told you. I have kept 
it buried in my old heart for many years. It was 
the memory of it that caused me to refuse my con* 
sent to the marriage of you, Charles Atkinson, to 
my niece, Rose. She discovered it by accident. 
She has told me how it came to her knowledge, told 
me one night while on our way here. But you, 
Charles, and you, my tender flower, have never heard 
it. It has been kept from you. But to-day you 
shall know all. I am going to lay bare to you the 
knowledge which has been as a weight upon my 
heart for so many years; which has caused so much 
misery, so much suffering.” 

Breathless with attention, the husband clasping the 
little hand of his wife, listens. With large wondering 
eyes, Lilia, the child born to misfortune, drinks in 
the story of her mother’s sad fate, her father’s un¬ 
happiness. 

It is soon told, and the eager listeners sit appalled 
at the sad history they have heard. 

“As I said before, this was the cause of my re¬ 
fusal, the reason why Rose, my darling one, left her 
home. She felt she could not bring disgrace upon 


422 


c/W UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


your honorable name, Charles Atkinson. This is 
why my dear ones have never known a mother’s ten¬ 
der care, a father’s love. Is it not sufficient to have 
produced all that has followed?” 

"Horrible! Horrible!” cries Charles Atkinson. 

"Truly, if it were true; but thanks to the Ruler 
Df all, it is not.” 

They rise and stare at him in amazement. 

"Not true?” they cry in unison. 

"No; not true. Albert Greyson did not wed his 
mother. She whom I looked upon as my niece, the 
daughter of Alonzo Barton, my brother, was not my 
niece. I never knew it until to-day; until a short 
time ago; but I am convinced is so. See ! This is my 
niece, Albert Greyson’s mother.” 

He has extended his hand toward the heavy cur¬ 
tains that separate the room from the one adjoining. 
They turn and look with eager eyes, with bated 
breath. 

Jupiter draws aside the curtains, and with amaze¬ 
ment they see a black-robed figure cross the thresh¬ 
old. 

"Sister Agnes!” bursts from the lips of Lilia, and 
she is upon her breast, that tender, loving breast 
that has been her resting place in her time of 
sorrow. 

Sister Agnes, she murmurs, coming forward. 
"Agnes Greyson, your father’s mother, your grand¬ 
mother, dear children.” 

Rose goes to her as one in a dream, but is soon 
clasped in the loving arms. The new-found relative 


THE FREAKS OF MADMAN 


423 


gently leads them to the sofa. She sits between 
them. 

“Look well upon her face, my children. For hers 
is the face of your mother. They are strangely 
alike; but I have not finished. This is a day of 
many surprises. I have told you that the unhappy 
father, the grief-stricken, heart-broken husband be¬ 
came a wanderer upon the face of the earth. For 
years he could not be found, was never heard from. 
But—hush the beatings of your hearts, my dar¬ 
lings, prepare yourselves to meet him, for he is 
found. Your father is here." 

Again the curtains are drawn aside, again a soli¬ 
tary form crosses the threshold. With open arms 
he stands. 

With a glad cry Lilia recognizes the white-haired 
judge, and both she and her sister are soon clasped 
to his heart. 

“Thank God for this day,” he murmurs. 

“Thank God, indeed,” repeats John Barton. His 
eyes are moist; but he has not finished. Father and 
children sit side by side. The mother who has 
found her son sits near. The uncle speaks again. 

“And now that we are united a happy family, I 
will introduce him who has been guided by the 
divine hand of Providence to us this day. This is he 
who has swept away the clouds and caused the sun of 
happiness to shine upon us. Doctor Roberts. 

With a smile the doctor enters the room, his 
white hair and aged face impressing all who gaze 
upon them, 


424 


tAN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


“I am truly thankful that I am the messenger who 
has brought so much peace; such great joy;” he 
says, advancing to the center of the apartment. 
"Purely by accident I have been the means of remov¬ 
ing the veil which has shrouded the lives of so 
many, and in order that you can all clearly under¬ 
stand, I will explain in full, how the terrible mistake 
occurred, which has been the cause of it all. I 
have done so already, briefly to you, sir,” indicat¬ 
ing John Barton; "but I shall do so in full before 
you all.” 

Jupiter brings him a chair. He sits in it like one 
wearied. It is growing dark without and the lights 
are brought. Then, with the mellow reflection of 
the lamp shining upon his face, he begins: 

“The asylum at B—, where was confined the 
young wife of Hubert Greyson, was at that time 
under the management of Dr. George, an able man, 
but who, during the last years of his management 
gave signs of decay. He had worked too hard, and 
the inevitable results followed. I was appointed 
his assistant and devoted myself heart and soul to 
the work which had occupied the greater portion of 
his life. I soon grew familiar with the details, 
and even with the faces of the patients in the ward 
under my immediate jurisdiction. One day the doc¬ 
tor said: ‘I have not as yet shown you through 
ward C, where the cases I am the most deeply in¬ 
terested in are situated. Some day you may take 
my place. I think it advisable to instruct you fully 
as to all the inmates,’ I bowed and followed him, 


THE FREAKS OF <A MADMAN 


425 


After directing my attention to several of the most 
important cases, he called my particular attention to 
a Mrs. Greyson. 

‘A very interesting case/ he said, and I must con¬ 
fess one that interested me. For the moment my 
eyes rested upon the sad beautiful face, with the 
look of unutterable melancholy in the liquid eyes, 
my heart went out to her. We continued our way 
through the asylum, and came at last to another 
department. I started in surprise when I saw the 
face of one of the inmates. I actually cried aloud in 
my astonishment. Doctor George observed it. 
‘This is a Mrs. Atkinson/ he said. ‘She resembles 
Mrs. Greyson very much/ and he told me the sad 
story of the events which had driven her insane.” 

At this moment Charles Atkinson interrupted the 
speaker: 

‘‘Excuse me, sir. Was the lady’s name Marian 
Atkinson?” 

"The same, sir,” with a look of questioning. 

"Finish your recital, sir. I am deeply interest¬ 
ed/’ and the young man makes no further comment. 

The doctor continues: 

"We had gone but a few steps farther when 
one of the attendants approached us. 'Excuse me, 
Doctor; but is Mrs. Greyson upstairs or downstairs 
to-day?’ he asked. 

"The doctor laughed. 

" 'Upstairs, George/ he answered. I looked at 
him inquiringly. He answered my look. The 
resemblance between these two patients affords me 


426 


*AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


a chance for amusement. I change them from one 
room to another, sometimes putting Mrs. Atkin¬ 
son in Mrs. Greyson’s room and vice versa. It puz¬ 
zles the attendants and affords me much amuse¬ 
ment;’ and he laughed heartily; a laugh wild in its 
heartiness. I must confess I felt some amazement at 
this silly practical joke on the part of such a man. I 
afterward came to the conclusion that the weakness 
of his mind caused him to play these pranks, for I 
saw him perform many childish tricks. Poor fel¬ 
low; he was not responsible. One week from that 
day he was a helpless imbecile. 

“The two patients who bore such a striking re¬ 
semblance to each other remained in the apartments 
where I had first seen them until the day they left 
the institution and my care; Mrs. Atkinson with 
a father of the Catholic church, Mrs. Greyson, with 
her uncle, John Barton.” Here the doctor turned 
and smiled at the happy old man, who sat near 
him. 

“Well I remember that night, too,” he cried. ”1 
felt decidedly nervous to be in the carriage with an 
insane person; my wife was more so.” 

“Yes—yes. You seemed afraid; but to continue: 
My profession, confining me to the house the most 
of the time preyed upon my constitution, and after 
several years I was obliged to take a vacation. An 
old friend living in this very place, Buenos Ayres, 
had often invited me to make him a visit, so I de¬ 
termined upon a trip to South America. You, sir, 
know my friend;” to Greyson, "I will not mention 


THE FREAKS OF <A MtATDMtAN 427 


his name." The kind hearted doctor does not wish 
to mention the name of Amroyd in this happy cir¬ 
cle. The judge nods his head as the doctor refers 
to him. 

"We had a glorious time. My friend was a man 
of great wealth, and in his joy at seeing me, ex¬ 
pended large sums in order to make my visit enjoy¬ 
able. Among the sights of this quaint old town, is 
the convent of St. —. We visited it among the 
rest. Here a surprise awaited me, for among the 
holy women who made the convent their abiding 
place on earth, I met her who had been known to 
me as Marian Atkinson. I say known to me, for I 
found she was not Marian Atkinson, but Agnes 
Greyson. Her mind had grown stronger by the 
change of climate, and the full and complete mem¬ 
ory of all her past life had returned to her. Like 
a flash Dr. George’s practical joke came to my 
mind, and 1 now knew that the patient who had 
gone with John Barton was Marian Atkinson, and 
Agnes Greyson was before me. There is little more 
to explain. Upon the steamer that carried me to 
San Francisco I first met Albert Greyson, and her 
who became his wife. I recognized the face, but the 
name puzzled me. I did not know Frances Nor¬ 
ton, but I understand it all now. I returned to my 
home, and devoted myself to my profession until fail¬ 
ing health again compelled me to give it up for the 
second and last time. I went abroad, have circled 
the globe, and enly tjie desire to gaze upon my old 
friend’s face again brought me here. I came just in 


428 


e/flV UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


time it seems. I was greatly surprised to find my 
friend the judge here. I had read the account of 
his sad misfortune while abroad, and knowing that 
a letter would hardly reach him as he had left his 
country, I wrote John Barton at Melbourne. It is 
evident that the letter never reached him.” 

“It never came to hand,” says that gentleman. 

“I supposed so, for it explained all that I have 
just told you.” 

Silence for a moment, then the father, happy with 
his loved ones, asks: 

"How can you explain the fact that my poor 
wife at once remembered the facts of her early life 
when related to her by Uncle John. In his letter 
to me he stated that she recalled every event when 
spoken of by him.” 

"Only in this way can I exlpain it: Her mind 
was not strong when she left my care. I told Mr. 
Barton the night that he took her from the asylum 
that I doubted if she would ever have the full use 
of it again. Her own life story must have been 
greatly similar to that of Mrs. Greyson, and as the 
familiar points struck upon her weak, struggling 
mind, she took them in and believed them to be 
her own, as a child learns a lesson.” 

Charles Atkinson, who has been silent for some 
time, silent and thoughtful, now speaks. 

“Her story was much the same. I can explain 
part of it to you. Marian Atkinson was the wife of 
my father’s first cousin, who deserted her a short 
time after marriage, a year or so, probably. They 


THE FREAKS OF *A MtAVMAN 429 

also, were the possessors of a young child, which 
died a few days after the mother had been taken to 
your asylam, Doctor. She, also, became insane 
from the fact of her husband’s desertion.” 

"Strange, that these two, so much alike in face and 
form, shou’d both suffer in the same way from iden¬ 
tical causes,” the doctor muses. 

Atkinson continues: 

"The husband met his death in a railway acci¬ 
dent, leaving his property to his child. As the 
child was dead and the mother likely to share the 
same fate, my father set about finding the nearest 
relative on the wife’s side, and found that she was 
related to the family of Rodneys, of which Henry 
Rodney was the descendant. He wrote him, and 
received an answer dated Manitou Springs, Colo¬ 
rado, in which Rodney stated that he was coming 
east soon, and would attend to the matter. He 
never came, and the vast property is even now held 
in trust by me.” 

"And as Rose and Lilia Greyson are Marian At¬ 
kinson’s children, they are entitled to it,” shouts 
the doctor, leaping to his feet as quickly as his 
age will permit. They are a happy party that 
night. Never has Albert Greyson felt so proud, so 
filled with joy, as now that he sits surrounded by those 
who love him; those he loves. Jupiter stands grinning 
behind his master’s chair, as happy as any of them. 
He has seen much sorrow in this family. He be¬ 
gins to think that the tide has turned and only sun¬ 
shine and happiness will now attend them. 


430 


c AN Unconscious crim£ 


Ever and anon the black-robed woman presses her 
lips to the high, white forehead of the son she has 
found, while her soft voice whispers: 

“My boy—my son;” and the son looks up into the 
sweet face and answers: 

“My mother;” then clasping close his new-found 
treasures he adds: 

“My children. Thank God for all his mercies.” 

* — 

CHAPTER LIV 

THE END OF ALL 

Scene—John Barton’s happy home. Month, De¬ 
cember. Time, 4:15 p. m. A bright fire crackles in 
the large, open fireplace. It is growing dark, but 
the lights have not yet been brought, the glare of 
the huge blazing logs being sufficient to give all the 
illuminating power necessary. There is a merry 
group before the fire. We will take the liberty to 
look in their faces and see if we know them. First 
that bent, white haired form sitting close to the 
cheery oak fire. We can recognize in those kindly 
eyes one we have known from the very first chapter 
of our history. It is John Barton. John Barton 
not as we knew him then, for he is alone now. His 
companion through life has gone before. He misses 
her quiet smile and gentle voice. She has nobly 
fulfilled her duty on earth. She has indeed been 
a helpmate, God’s best gift to man, so seldom 
appreciated; a good wife. 



THE END OF *ALL 


431 


Next him, with his manly form convulsed with 
laughter at the struggling efforts of a wee baby to 
pull her pussy’s tail, as she lies upon the hearth, 
is Albert Greyson, now a grandpa, for the child is 
the first born of Rose and Charley. They sit near 
the light of a parent’s first tender love in the eyes 
of each. 

Sitting behind Uncle John is a happy smiling 
woman whose hair, not yet white, is neatly smoothed 
back under a neat cap. The face is not so white 
as when we last saw it. The expression of the eyes 
is changed. Then it was holy submission, a heart 
resolved to bear up under a life’s sorrow, a resolve 
to alleviate the sufferings of others, that in the joy 
of seeing surcease from sorrow in them her own 
might be forgotten. 

Sister Agnes, but Sister Agnes no longer. She 
has served her Maker faithfully, for over a quarter 
of a century in the black robes of her church. Her 
declining years will be spent in rendering homage 
and service surrounded by those of kindred; teach¬ 
ing them the right path. It has cost her a pang to 
give up her holy calling, but she is a woman, she is 
a mother; she has a mother’s heart. The door 
leading to the veranda opens, and with a cheery 
laugh enters our old friend, Dr. Roberts. He has 
settled in the neighborhood. 

' "Must look after the family, you know," he says. 
He holds an open newspaper in his hand. 

"No light yet?” he shouts; "here, I want to show 
you something in to-day’s paper. Guess the fire- 


432 


<AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME 


light is strong enough;” and falling into a chair he 
leans over, so as to allow the firelight to reflect 
upon the paper, and reads: 

* The public will doubtless be pleased to hear that 
that arch-scoundrel, T. Smith Chatwood has at last 
met with his just deserts. That indefatigable de¬ 
tective and all-round good fellow, William Black- 
stone, has been upon his track for the past year 
and has finally got him on the hip. He was sen¬ 
tenced to-day to two years in Joliet, and with hearty 
good will we cry: "Good riddance to bad rubbish.” 
A reporter saw the smiling and genial detective 
soon after the sentence was passed. 

"You stuck to him,” he remarked. 

"Yes, I had it in for him for some time. I got 
him at last." 

"What do you piopose to do now?” 

"Oh, let him go; look out for others of his class; 
but excuse me, my wife is waiting for me at home; 
she will be anxious to hear the news;” and he left 
the reporter standing on the curbstone. Blackstone 
has not been married long, and so he has not be¬ 
come a case-hardened husband yet. Our readers 
will remember we published an account of his mar¬ 
riage to Miss Lilia Greyson, youngest daughter of 
Albert Greyson, some six months since. 

"So they’ve got him at last,” comments Uncle 
John. "Truly a good riddance.” 

Andrew Greyson is living a quiet private life. 
He has no official aspirations now. He is content 
with home and home comforts. He reads the 
papers from Buenos Ayies. In one of them he 
found the death of Arthur Amroyd recorded. He 
did not long survive his erring son. The last official 
act of the judge was to pardon Miguel Banca. 


When censured for this he said: 
2hild, and any man who really loves 
not be wholly bad.” 

A wise judge. 

It is growing quite dark. 

Jupiter brings in the lights. 


“He loves his 
his kind can- 


FINIS 


A LITERARY GEM 


Mademoiselle de Maupin, 

A ROMANCE OF LOVE AND PASSION. 

By THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 

12mo, 413 pages. Paper covers frustrated with IQ 
Half-tones from the original etchings 
by Toudouze 


"The golden book of spirit and sense, the Holy Writ of beamy."— A. C. 

“Gauder is an inimiMble model. His manner is so light and true, so really cre¬ 
ative, his fancy so alert, nis taste so happy, his humor so genial, that he makes illusion 
almost as contagious as laughter.”— Mr. Henry James. 


“MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN,” the latest product of the pen of 
Theophile Gautier, is considered by the best critics of this inimitable 
Frenchman to be his most artistic, witty and audacious work. In writing 
this charming novel. Gautier has displayed all the artistic coloring that 
atmospheres the romantic school of literature this versatile author has 
created. 

** MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN ” is alive with the characteristic vigor 
shown in «Albertus,” “Les Jeunes—France,” and “Poesies de 
Theophile Gautier,” his earlier works, but is more delicate, and 
abounds in the subtle cynicism which contrasts so delightfully with the 
pungent wit that sparkles on every page. 

The book is a marvel of beauty, both from an artistic: as well as a 
typographical standpoint 

' : —--— -3 

K>8 SALE AT ALL BOOK STORES AND NEWS STANOS AND ON AU. 

RAILROAD TRAINS. * 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers, 

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS. 








SAPPHO 

By ALPHONSE DAUOET. 

Unmbridfftd Translation from the 100th Wreneh J Edition. 


Sappho ’ is, without doubt. Daudet’s masterpiece, and should be 
read by every lover of the artistic in choice fiction.”— Tribune. 

“The boookmay, without exaggeration, be described as a glowing pic¬ 
ture of Parisian life, with all its diversity of characters, with its bohe¬ 
mian and half-world circles that are to be found nowhere else; with all 
its special immorality, in short, but also with the touch of poetry that 
saves it from utter corruption, and with the keen artistic sense that 
preserves its votaries from absolute degradation ,”—Daily Telegraph . 


No book has attained greater popularity in France than 
“ Sappho.” Our translation, as published in 

The Pastime Series 

is done by a master hand, preserving all the beauties of 
the original French. 

It should be in the hands of every young man. 


' S3 

For sale at all book stores and news stands, and on all railroad 
trains. Be sure and ask for LAIRD & LEE’S EDITION, as It is 

THE BE8T PUBLISHED. 


LAIRD & LEE, Publishers, 

CHICAGO, ILLS, 







Poetic Jewels 

V c _ 

The Athenenm Collection of the World's Choicest Poetry. 

The Sweetest and the Best of 

Victor Hugo, Schiller, Shakespeare, Milton, Moore, Byron, Burns, Browning, 
Buchanan, Scott, Shelley, Wordsworth, Thackeray, Nemans, Lovell, Long¬ 
fellow, Whittier, Holmes, Bryant, Read, Roe, Perry, Woolson, Poe, Storey, 
Taylor, Harte, Lee, Lowell, Tennyson, Landon, and the many minor 
Poets of both Continents, whose short, pathetic poems once read 
remain with the heart forever. 


The entire collection has been carefully selected and arranged by 
Mr. E. T. Roe, formerly editor of the Athenaeum , after counseling with the 
most eminent of the Poets as to which of their writings were by them 
regarded as their favorite and choicest Poems. .The volume is illus¬ 
trated with 23 full-page engravings, and is bound in extra silk clpth, lull 
gilt edges, with an original and unique design embossed on side and 
back in Ink and Gold. It will be found a most valuable addition to any 
library, and will make an acceptable gift to a friend. 

A special feature of the collection is an autograph letter from Wil¬ 
liam Cullen Bryant to the editor, in which he makes a selection of three 
of his favorite poems, and refers to the effective manner in which one of 
them was recited by Mrs. Siddons in New York City. . , 

The poems of Longfellow and some of those of other eminent 
American Poets, were specially selected by the authors for this collec- 

^° n * Many of the poems contained in POETIC JEWELS cannot be had 
outside of its pages. _ 

REMARKS OF THE REVIEWERS. 

“We find that the selections are literary gems from the best authors 
of all .”—New England Journal of Education. 

“The editor is a man of taste and erudition, and culls from standard 
and classic authors the choicest gems of our language.” 

—American Art Journal. 

“The selections are not of the hackneyed range, but of poems of 
great merit not generally known except in Statesman. 

“Permit me to say that I consider your selections better than any I 
find in the various compilations now before the public. 

MOSES T. BROWN, A.M., 

Prof, of Oratory at Tuft's College , Boston. 

“The East has a large number of such publications, but none of 
them so fully secures the end sought as the Atheneum Collection- 
putting in tangible form the richest gems of our literature at so very 
small expense.” „ PROF. WM. W. THOMPSON, 

Principal of Amsterdam (N. Y.) Academy . 


This beautiful volume with full gilt edges will be sent to any address, 
postpaid, on receipt of $1.50. 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers, CHICAGO, ILL, 






THE GREAT NEW NOVEL 


THE LOST WITNESS 

OR, THE MYSTERY OF LEAH PAGET. 


By LAWRENCE L LYNCH, 

Author of “Shadowed by Three,” “Dangerous Ground,” “Made- 
line Payne,” etc., etc. 

l2mo, 557 pages. 16 full-page illustrations. Printed on fine book paper, 
from* 'arge type; and handsomely bound in paper covers, thread sewed. 


The splendid reputation acquired by Mr. Lynch, whose fascinating 
writings have given delight to countless readers, is fully sustained in this, 
his latest work. Leah Paget , the beautiful daughter of a New York mill¬ 
ionaire, is mysteriously abducted. The police search in vain. Francis 
Ferrars , the famous detective of “Shadowed by Three,” is hastily sum* 
moned from Europe. Immediately following his arrival, a new complica¬ 
tion arises. Hortense Novalis , a famous and handsome actress, is found 
murdered, in her splendid apartments. The only clue discovered is a start¬ 
ling one, and seems to connect Leah Paget and her affianced with this 
crime! Francis Ferrars , and Cousin , a reporter, set themselves to work 
in earnest, each taking up a separate line of inquiry; and Ferrars places 
Cousin under surveillance as well. And the murder of Novalis is further 
complicated by the sudden disappearance of LaBelle Fabrice , a rival 
actress, who has just scored a most successful debut . The plot of this 
fascinating book is intricate in the extreme, and we can promise readers a 
rare treat in its perusal. 

i --- ■■ 

THE ABOVE BOOK FORMS NO. 1 OF 

The Library of Choice Fiction. 

FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS AND NEWSDEALERS, AND 
ON ALL RAILROAD TRAINS. 


LAIRD &. LEE, Publishers. CHICAGO, ILL 










The Library of Choice Fiction. 

t * ft * 

No. i. The Lost Witness; or, The Mystery of Leah Paget. 

By Lawrence L. Lynch (of the Secret Service), author of ‘‘ Shadowed by Three," 
“ The Diamond Coterie,” etc. 557 pages ; 16 full-page engravings. 

No. 2. Mademoiselle de Maupin; A Romance of Love and Passion. 

By Theophile Gautier. 413 pages; 16 half-tone illustrations from etchings, by 
Toudouze. 

No. 3. A Gold Hunter's Adventures in Australia. 

By Wm. H. Thornes, author of ‘‘The Bushrangers,” etc. 564 pages; 40 full page 
engravings. 

No. 4. Shadowed by Three. 

By Lawrence L. Lynch, author of ‘‘The Lost Witness,” etc. 670 pages; 55 full- 
page engravings. 

No. 3. Notre Coeur ( The Human Heart'). 

By Guy de Maupassant. Translated from the French by Alexina Loranger. Illus¬ 
trated with 12 half-tone engravings, including portrait of the author. 

No. 6. A Whaleman's Adventure on Sea and Land. 

By Wm. H. Thornes. 444 pages; 36 full-page illustrations. 

No. y. Camille. 

By Alexandre Dumas, fils. Illustrated with 16 half-tone illustrations from the 
Original French Etchings. 

No. 8. Pierre et Jean (Peter and John.) 

By Guy de Maupassant. Translated from the French by Alexina Loranger. Illus¬ 
trated with 8 photo-gravures on enameled paper. 

No. 9. Madeline Payne, 7 he Detective's Daughter. 

By Lawrence L. Lynch. i2mo. 456 pages ; 45 full-page engravings. 

No. 10. The Rich Man's Fool. 


By Robert C. Givins, Esq. i2mo. 430 pages. Illustrated with 17 photo-gravures 
on enameled paper. 

No. II. A. D. 2000. 

By Lieut. Alvarado M. Fuller. U. S. Army. nmo. 412 pages. Illustrated with 16 
half-tones on enameled paper. 

No. 12. The Bushrangers. A Yankee's Adventures During a Second 
Trip to Australia. 

By Wm. H. Thornes. 121110. 480 pages; 16 full-page engravings. 

No. 13. The Chouans. 

By Honore de Balzac. With 100 engravings on wood, by Leveille, from drawings 
by Julien de Blant. Newly translated into English by George Saintsbury. 

No. 14. A Chronicle of the Reign of Charles LX. 

Translated from the French of Prosper Merimee, by George Saintsbury. Illustrated 
with no engravings on wood from drawings by Toudouze. 

Above books are printed on a superior quality of calendered paper and 
artistically bound in enameled paper covers, with appropriate designs in colors. 
They are for sale at all bookstores and on all railroad trains. 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers, Chicago, III . 



































* 













t 










































v/v 







1 ,T 


library of congress 


V > i 

w* 

't* *4 

l&l 



00D53n3T^l 


bBKVASXW 




i *7» « >> 




.rnttia 


t 






































